221b
by jenamy
Summary: Sherlock finds there is something peculiar about that upstairs bedroom when he finds an old journal with a name inscribed on the front.   This is a slash story between Sherlock & John.
1. Dr John H Watson?

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**As per usual, I do not own these wonderful characters. They belong to the amazing imagination of Doyle and their reincarnates belong to the wonderul minds of Gatiss and Moffat.**

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_One man I can never meet. Him, I would like to give my whole heart to._

-The Lake House

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I heard the soft, hesitant footsteps of Mrs. Hudson come from the upstairs room. She'd be tidying it up again; she hopes I will let someone in. I sat up from the tubes in front of me; something was different about her steps, the hesitation was caution, she was carrying something.

"Sherlock, have you been up in that room? I've found this and it looked like something you'd leave lying around."

She entered the kitchen with a worn, leather bound journal in her hands. It definitely holds a distinct age about it, but the owner also took great care of it. A prized possession then, so what was it doing in that room? I'd looked through everything, even under the loose floorboards, how could I miss that?

"That's where it is. I'd been looking for that for ages, thank you."

We both knew I was lying, but bless her heart she left the journal on the edge of the table and left with a swift bid of good evening. I turned my attention back to the middle tube and smiled—Lestrade will be thrilled I've solved yet another of his cases. I sent him the text telling him that the husband is free to walk away; it's the wife's younger brother who should be behind bars. Dreadful business people let themselves get into with matters of their hearts and all of those emotions. Love triangles are messy, they never end well.

My gaze then shifted to the worn journal sitting there, taunting me with the questions of whose it is, where did it come from? I could make out the engraving of a name on the bottom right-hand corner, that dictates ownership, but where did it come from? I would notice if another person was living in the unused room upstairs. Or even if someone were to have just randomly dropped it off, why that room specifically? Nothing is missing, yet something was left behind.

I stood and slowly made my way around the table, making sure to keep my gloves on, I wouldn't want to contaminate whatever fingerprints are there, well besides Mrs. Hudson's. There is a name: _Dr. John H. Watson._ I let a fingertip trace over the name, why did it seem familiar? I don't recall ever meeting a Dr. Watson, let alone ever hearing Mrs. Hudson mention the name. I pulled on the leather strap keeping the journal closed, gently opening it; the scrawl that implied ownership once more caused a sense of belonging to course through me.

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**A/N:** Hi. This is my first time posting in the Sherlock fandom (I'm partial to Harry Potter & Stargate Atlantis)...I will not even pretend like I've the talent to be here and taking on such wonderful characters. I can't even come up with a plot of my own, so as cheesy and lame as that admittance is, I am using the premise of the film the quote at the top is from. However, I will be adding my own touches here and there as is the notion when one writes fanfiction.

************Feel free to tell me if you hate it, love it, want to read more of it...I'm open to any kind of feedback. :)


	2. Last few weeks

"Oh come off it Harry! I've told you plenty of times, I can handle rent just fine on my own, besides, I ship out in a few weeks and my lease will be up, stop worrying."

I placed the pen down in the crease of my journal, knowing that when I glance over at my sister she'll be standing with her hands on her hips—yes, there's that pose I know so well. Though I suppose I should be grateful she's sober, or relatively speaking for her terms.

"You're leaving me too! Clara's going on and on about how unstable and unsuitable of a wife I've been and now you're running away to be _shot_ at and neither of you care about what that's doing to me!"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, I knew this visit was going to turn ugly; they always do.

"Harry, it's not always about you and until you realize that then yes, Clara will leave you to your own devices as she should've a long time ago and I will still ship out to Afghanistan. It's something I want to do, you can't change my mind."

"You can help people here! You don't have to go and risk your life just to save theirs! I'm sure Barts would love to keep you on hand…I would prefer it if you were still close by."

That would be the closest admittance of an _I love you _from Harry I would ever get. I pushed myself away from the desk and crossed the sitting room to her and pulled her in for a hug. Her arms remained limp at her side; I was always the more affection of the two of us.

"I am going, hate me for it all you want. If you're going to resent me then I really do mean it when I say don't bother seeing me these last few weeks I've left."

I dropped my arms and let her decide to leave, which she did. She just held my gaze with the most emotion I've seen in her eyes since we were younger. I knew she'd go home, find Clara's things gone; Clara told me earlier that she'd be leaving whilst Harry was here. She'd go home and drown her sorrows in whatever bottles of poison she has in her possession.

I watched her walk down the stairs and listened as she slammed the front door behind her. I slumped my shoulders and headed back to my desk, sitting myself down and picked up where I had finished.

…_Harry's just had another fit about my tour. I think being away, not being able to enable her will be good for her (or it'll just make things worse). I give this place up to a nice married couple, the Hudson's if I recall correctly. I met the Mister just yesterday, said his wife would be along shortly. Said this would be their second home, their priority is in Florida, or some other place in the States._

_While I find writing my thoughts out, the happenings of my days, I just wish I had someone to share them all with. Someone who would understand this undying loneliness that fills me with a silent dread each time I come home from a shift… _

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**Thank you my dears for the feedback and the few alerts! They mean a lot to me. :)**

**While this chapter is in John's POV, I can't promise I'll switch off each chapter with either Sherlock or John.**

**I also apologize for any mishaps, I'm quite thorough in my revision(it's the English major in me)...however, I am only human.**


	3. Solve you

I curled into myself on the far left side of my couch, the journal lying next to me, taunting me, inviting me to open it and read about this Watson fellow. The name sounds faintly familiar but I cannot put it to any case, or maybe Mrs. Hudson mentioned it. Yes! Her husband told me in passing once that they bought this home from a nice young man, a doctor headed off to Afghanistan. I quickly searched my phone out of my trouser pocket and searched the name: Dr. John H. Watson.

_Doctor John H. Watson served admir—_

Served; I skimmed a few lines down—_He is survived by his sister, Harriet Watson._ A dead man's journal was in my possession—I stared at it. It was so plain, so normal, why should a dead army medic's thoughts intrigue me so? I uncurled my arms, reaching out swiftly to lift the journal into my lap, allowing my fingers to trail over the engraved name on the cover. I opened it to the first page, once more seeing the messy scrawl of the man's own name.

I skipped a few pages in: _…are so stupid! How can someone believe we wouldn't assume the correct reason such an object was lodged in that specific location? "I tripped." What a load of garbage! Though I suppose this whole process is rubbish, writing the on-goings of my life on pages that I doubt anyone would ever actually read... _

…_I'm not sure to be insulted or flattered. A nice elderly lady asked if I was single, such a man like myself shouldn't wander alone. I'm too handsome to be left to my own devices, or so she told me. I could only smile politely before administering her nightly dose of morphine, her mumbling fading as she fell asleep. I suppose being lonely does have its disadvantages, however, I am rather difficult to live with…_

_Words fail me. I lost him. He bled out on my table, right there in front of me and I was helpless to save him. He was only seventeen, just a boy…_

If all entries were about his shifts this would become a rather dull read. I flipped through to the last entry; skimming the page briefly I noticed it was unfinished.

_Perhaps in my own delusions of my happy ever after, or lack there of, I'll leave this in the top drawer of the night stand, maybe the elusive Mrs. Hudson will find it and think her husband mental from buying a home from such a person like me…if she even knows my name. Mr. Hudson didn't seem much the communicative type._

_I ship out Tuesday next, six days from now. I haven't seen Harry since the day she simply left two weeks ago. Clara called this morning, wishing me the best, or the best one can wish in these situations. I'm slightly terrified; there, I've admitted it—finally. What if these are the last thoughts I leave behind? I'm sure whoever finds this would find me rather dull and most likely pathetic. _

_Yet there's something nagging the back of my mind, something that lingers like a whisper of a ghost. I have the strangest notion that something big is about to happen to me, something not army related. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part, that last bit of hopeless romantic in me. Or perhaps I know I'm going off to my death._

_I'm not crazy; well I can't actually dispute that with you, whoever you are, reading this. I have a lot of regrets, and I think, no, I know that I'm going off to war to make a crap attempt at redemption. Risking life and limb just to save another, that's got to count for something, right? I cert_

I glared at the last word. Incomplete; this would drive me mad. I have to know what happened. I glanced up at my lodgings companion.

"Predictably, he would be saying 'I certainly hope so' or something like that, agreed?"

I met the dark, unseeing eyes and cradled my head in my hands, my fingers rubbing gently at my temples. This is why Mrs. Hudson thought I needed a flatmate, a _living_ person to speak to. I looked down at the page in front of me and without truly thinking about what I was doing, I reach to the table and picked up a pen.

**Doctor Watson, I wish you survived, if only for the sole purpose that I solve you.**

The moment I completed that statement I stared down at my hand in shock—had I really just done such a foolish thing? The man is dead, has been for months apparently. I tossed the pen away, not bothering to care where it landed and slammed the journal shut. Quickly climbing to my feet, I raced up the room upstairs; I hadn't set foot inside of it since my first initial inspection.

There was an inviting warmth to the room I hadn't noticed before. I crossed the room and tossed the journal into the top drawer of the night stand. I turned to the window and glanced down at the slowly quieting street below. Normal people were retiring for the night; my mind never quieted enough to get proper rest, but then again, sleep was only a nuisance. I press my forehead to the glass and close my eyes, mere seconds later I've deleted what's just happened.

Leaving the room I felt a small tingle at the base of my neck and the sense that I shouldn't have easily dismissed something. I returned to my couch, downstairs and picked up one of my many books on bee keeping. They always fascinated me, perhaps when I'm bored with puzzles I'll keep bees.

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**I suppose I should mention, this is most definitely not Brit-picked. **

**I am not fond of this chapter; it did not come out how I pictured so feel free to tell me if you felt it was rather lame. **

**(It's longer though, that might count for something!) XD **

**Again, thanks to those of you who have added this to your Story Alerts, means a lot to me. :)**


	4. Mycroft Holmes

I woke with a start, nearly tumbling off the couch—so I did gather some sleep. I froze; there was someone else in my flat.

"Ah, good, you're awake."

I groaned; would he ever leave me alone? I sat up and glared towards the sitting chair to my left; settling the hard stare on the man simply twirling an umbrella, looking down his nose at me—as always.

"What do you want this time Mycroft?"

His brow barely lifted in annoyance as he placed the tip of his umbrella hitting the floor with a soft click.

"You can't keep doing this Sherlock."

I slumped back down on my back—he was so infuriating!

"_You_ can't keep doing this! I will never learn for myself if you're always there holding my hand Mycroft! Mummy has told you repeatedly to leave me be."

Silence erupted in seconds; I hadn't burst like that in a long time. His gaze remained steadily matched with my own.

"Sherlock, _that_ is not…there's a file on your desk, your assistance will be highly appreciated."

I knew everything he cut himself short of saying. I resented him for it.

"Yes, thank you. See yourself out."

I watched as he stood slowly and walked out the sitting room door and down the stairs; after the front door clicked shut behind him did I let my fingers rake through my hair. I jumped to my feet and raced to the bathroom, knowing what I was looking for would be in its place—unless Mycroft snooped whilst I was asleep.

I removed the lid on the back of the toilet—it was gone. He had snooped and found where I had hidden it—again. I slid to the floor; I needed to focus. I needed to do something, this boredom would kill me. I heard a faint thump from upstairs and my eyes darted up to the ceiling.

Climbing to my feet I swiftly made my way out to the stairs and took them up slowly. If it wasn't Mrs. Hudson I'd want to know which of Mycroft's lackeys was still around.

"Sherlock dear, you'll have to try harder if you want to startle me. Now I thought you said this was yours, why did you put it back up here?"

I smiled into the room at the rather chipper old woman. She was still bustling around the bed, making sure all four corners were perfect.

"You moved the page marker I see, so you did do some sort of reading through it last night; anything useful?"

I glanced at the nightstand; she had placed it on top, _outside_ of the drawer. Had she skimmed through it? No, the pages haven't been recently turned, or at least not since my own doing last night.

"Um, no, just an old journal from my youth."

She tossed an amused smile over her shoulder at me.

"You'll do well to remember this is not your room and I'm not your housekeeper dear. I don't need to tidy up your loose odds and ends."

I quickly strode to the stand and picked up the journal; I supposedly deleted it from memory, yet the moment I stepped into the room everything came back clear as ever—odd.

"If you'll excuse me I'll get back to the inner angst of my misspent youth, Mrs. Hudson."

She chuckled and waved me off.

"I'll bring you some tea in a little while."

With a small smile towards her back I exited the room and returned downstairs. The page marker had been moved; I surely didn't do it whilst reading it. Curiosity getting the better of me, I quickly opened the journal to the marked page and there, in the same handwriting as the previous entries was another few lines, directly beneath the single line I had hastily written last night.

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**Again you darling readers, I thank you! :) **

**I rather enjoy your feedback (as well as you _silent_ types who add this to your alerts), you truly do make my days just a bit better!**

**Yes, this was a rather horrible spot for me to end, however, doing so will make the next bit flow a bit easier...or so I hope. XD**


	5. Am I missed?

Now I know someone's having me on; I deliberately left that upstairs. I snatched up my journal off the coffee table and plunked down on my favorite chair, flipping through to my last entry I was slightly startled to see another's handwriting.

**Doctor Watson, I assure you I am no Harriet. I also assure you that if your sister were to ever read those words she would never forgive herself for the amount of self-hatred she'd put on her shoulders the remainder of her days. People do tend to waste so much energy on emotions. I find emotions pointless and refrain from allowing myself to give into them. Then again, most suffering from sort of addiction to substances, well there really is no other way of life until they're ready to give it up.**

**However, the question is undoubtedly, how ****you**** got into ****my**** flat last night without me noticing? I was sleeping on the couch, not to mention up till early hours working on my various experiments. Unless you're one of Mycroft's minions and this is his idea of a grand joke; his sense of humor was always a bit off.**

Mycroft? Who the bloody hell is Mycroft? Their flat? Who did this person think they were? Then I recalled what I had written in my haste to Harry; it was rather hurtful and she really wouldn't be able to live with herself if I did die. I marked the page and tossed the journal on the table and turned on the telly, my feeble attempt at a distraction; it only lasted twenty minutes.

_I don't know anyone named Mycroft and whoever this is, stop having me on. This is my flat, well it will be till the Hudson's take over next week after I ship out to Afghanistan (and I doubt you're one of them). Not that you care or need to particularly know that tidbit of info, but now I'm nervous and I can't help myself sometimes. Plus it seems you've read previous entries so you already know that (I don't curl my page corners and I'd appreciate it if you refrained from doing so, thanks)._

_You obviously know who I am, and the name's John, not just Dr. Watson. Who are you? Do I even know you? Are you one of Mycroft's minions? I'd recall someone experimenting till the early hours of morning and then sleeping on my couch. Then again, what sense does it make if I'm writing to someone I don't know? Has my mind split due to stress and fear (I haven't even shipped out yet!) and I'm writing to my now two different personalities? Rubbish, I'd have more signs around my flat if I've gone off like that. _

_You experiment? On what? What is it you do? It's only fair I get to know things about you you already know about me._

_I'd say you're an alcoholic too but you used the term "substance" which leads me to believe you're into (or were) something heavier. For your sake I hope you're clean. _

I laid my head back and ran my hands over my face—what am I doing? I glance down at the unfamiliar handwriting; definitely not Harry's, or Clara's for that matter. I made sure the door was locked last night and I don't share the other rooms with anyone else, so who could be writing to me? Who would want to? I reached back down for the pen lying in the center crease.

_You imply I die, or will die. Am I missed?_


	6. My name is not important

I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes; why was this so hard for them to understand? I needed something to keep my mind from going stagnant and this helped.

"You wouldn't want me to call Mummy now would you?"

In an instant I dropped my hands and glared hard at Mycroft.

"That's low, even for you."

"Then let us help you Sherlock, you might think doing this to yourself is something to think little of, but you do know what you do to your body with each injection?"

I turned my hardened stare to Lestrade. For once he didn't look like he'd back down to what I had to say, accept it as truth—not like he normally does.

"Sherlock, what is this?"

I turned back to Mycroft and my eyes slightly widened at the sight of the journal—Dr. Watson's. He'd been flipping through the pages, marking a few—Watson wouldn't be happy about that.

"Have you been writing in this? I notice your actual handwriting, but have you gone so far your mind has finally snapped?"

Lestrade offered his hand, Mycroft handed him the journal and he started skimming through pages as well. His eyes widened as he read some of them—were they truly that fearful that my imagination was that grand? I lived on facts and facts alone; I didn't like the unknown, the unsolvable.

"If my mind had split into two very different personalities as you both assume, there would be apparent signs of two different people living within my walls. As such there is only proof of one, me. Mycroft you've already destroyed most of my stashes and Lestrade, if you truly could go without help you'd have me locked away getting the help you both think will do me so much good."

I rose to my feet and held out my hands, showing them my wrists; the closest to a surrender they'd ever get from me. Neither made a sound or the notion to move and contain me so I took that as the sign it was—my final warning. I quickly left the room, being sure to snatch the journal from Lestrade and slammed my bedroom door behind me.

I could hear their low murmurs, obviously discussing shifts to watch over me, determining shifts—which would be never-ending for Mycroft. He'd make sure my every move was watched, just as he always does. I climbed onto my bed, placing myself in the center and curled my legs beneath me and placed the journal on my lap.

The first corner Mycroft folded down was the first mentioning of depression in Dr. Watson: _…I lost him. He bled out on my table and there was nothing more I could do for him. I know who's to blame but somehow I can't shake this guilt of if I had been given him sooner I'd have been able to clamp down on his artery, or at least SOMETHING! _

_I had to tell his parents that they lost their son. I had to tell them the worst thing that any parent wants to hear—your son didn't make it. No matter how much I believe and know I did all I could, having to tell someone that my best wasn't good enough, it's never easy…_

I rushed to the page marker, opening the journal to find his rapidly becoming familiar handwriting. After reading his words I could only trail my index finger over his last line—how can someone feel that lonely when they're surrounded by people all the time? What am I doing? It's like I actually care about this Dr. Watson, this John.

I flipped to another entry Mycroft had folded down: _…I always enjoyed the odd ones. The people most tend to over look due to some eccentricity or other. I ran into a man today, quite literally, he was tall (as most people are) and very pale. Now if I had any of the inkling to read nonsense fiction like Harry, she'd have thought him a vampire or some such rubbish. But it was his eyes that caught my attention most. Blue, so blue, I've never seen that shade before. I swear if I were permitted to look, I'd lose myself in them. Look at me, writing in my journal about some other bloke's eyes like a school girl with a crush! He didn't apologize, just kept going muttering to himself about some Angel being on the other side of London housebreaking to have murdered someone._

_I watched as he dashed around the corner as if our collision hadn't deterred him at all. I picked up my bag of groceries and continued on to 221b. I thought I shook the man from my thoughts, but I guess not. _

Angelo, the day I cleared his name from murder! This Watson does exist! I recalled that day and went through my steps, retracing and recounting everything I did—I recall bumping into quite a few people that day. Too many to pinpoint which of the males was Dr. Watson; but he's real and that's what matters. I glanced around my room, searching for a stray pen or pencil, I tend to leave them wherever. I spotted one on the top of the window and quickly retrieved it.

**We've met Dr. Watson. Well not properly, my brother looked through this and marked one of your earlier entries, the one about the man who ran into you, with the blue eyes, that was me. He and DI Lestrade have been haranguing me about my substance use (calling it abuse). Both accusing me that your entries are that of a split personality in my mind, however, I would know if my mind has decided to desert me, it is my one greatest possession. Without it, I truly would not know what to do with myself, though I suppose even with a lesser intellect beekeeping would keep me occupied. **

**My name is not important.**

**I experiment on a lot of things, that's all you need to know. I assist the police on certain cases; I do love to annoy Anderson. There's a new one, a Ms. Donovan, she's quite a nasty thing. Vile tongue but lacks the intellect behind the things she says, pity, she might have actually intrigued me. **

**I am not clean, not according to the terms apparently you, Mycroft and Lestrade determine. I know the consequences of my actions and I know my limits, there is no need to worry. My usage has yet to deter my daily life, I find nothing wrong with a little mental stimulation.**

**I don't know how to answer that. I try not to get involved in emotions, mostly due to the fact I can't feel them; I'm a sociopath. I would imagine your family would miss you, that's what families do I suppose. My family has never been on the level of anyone else's for me to make any relevant judgment. **

I closed the book and part of me felt as if those words weren't good enough. Like I had left something out or missed something completely. I quietly climbed off my bed and listened at the door, Lestrade and Mycroft had gone. I exited my room and raced upstairs and placed the journal back in the top drawer of the nightstand.

Making my way back into my sitting room I glanced around and smirked. Pushing the journal to the back of my mind I set about disabling all the hidden cameras around my flat. Mycroft would have to try much harder.

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**I tried to eliminate all mishaps, but again, I'm flawed by humanity. **

**This is the longest chapter yet! If it feels rushed I do apologized, I've had a rough past few days, hence the lull in updating. **

**I hope you lot enjoyed this chapter (and picked up on something of importance within it). :)**


	7. If only to know you

I lounged on the sofa, draping myself across its length as if I were actually drained of all energy. If I were anyone else, I suppose I would be. Three days without food and sleep apparently is bad for ones body. I'm still functioning. My eyes closed, as if they had made the choice without my knowledge; my mind suddenly sparked—Watson's journal! I jumped up and quickly raced upstairs, halting in the doorway, my gaze locked on the nightstand. Softly I padded across the room and opened the drawer, a small smile splayed and I lifted the book into my hands. I sat down on the bed and opened it to the page marker. My small smile turned into a grin at his now familiar scrawl.

_John, my name is John. I would like to know your name. I'm sorry it took me a few days to respond, my family finally came around to the idea that I'm doing what I want to do. They only have a few days left with me; they're all acting like I'm going to die. Harry finally came back, apologizing and crying and actually hugging. I told her about you. _

_Can I ask an odd que: do you have a prior address to 221b? Could I write to you whilst I am away? Did you even live in London before you came here? I suppose I am just being foolish, but oddly enough, talking to you, like this, it's been the most genuine conversation I've had in a long while. Not even in uni with people who were on the same level as me, understanding the things I talked about…I don't know, it's almost as if you get me. Not even my real friends can do that._

_Or all of that's rubbish and I'm just a hopeless romantic at heart. Or I really am that lonely that I've taken to you, some complete stranger who now communicates with me through my journal. You're not dead are you? I know in films and on the telly, no, that's all rubbish too. Forgive me._

_A sociopath? I cannot tell; you put so much between the lines that you practically bleed emotions through the ink. _

_Regardless, I feel a bit foolish now, you see, I went into work today with a ridiculous grin and all anyone could as me was, 'who is she?' I didn't know what to say, so I remained silent on the subject. Of course that meant I was subject to so much mockery, but how do I tell a building of health care professionals that I'm intrigued with someone I speak to via my journal? We live in the same flat, but obviously not at the same time, but again, how would one explain that without being thought mental? _

_My clock says it's one in the morning, making it just under a handful of days till I ship out. I'll still leave this in the upstairs nightstand, that's the main bedroom I use. My eyes are drooping as I fight to stay awake to write you._

_I hope I survive, if only to know you in real life._

My brow furrowed at the last line—I am nothing spectacular.

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**I'm aware how ghastly short this bit is, and for that I apologize.**

**Again my dears, you lot brighten my day with each review/favorite/alert sent my way! :D **

**I'm not sure how I like this letter from John, but it is what it is and I cannot touch it anymore.**

**I will say, the boys will be meeting soon! 3**


	8. NUMBER UNKOWN

I jolted awake and glanced around the room; ah, I never made it to bed. Or rather in bed; I rolled my head, cracking my neck in the process. My back was going to kill me today; with a sigh I climbed to my feet, attempting to stretch in the process. My head felt like it was going to split open—Harry, she was over and of course brought her own sort of beverage along.

I should know better then to accept anything she brings. I staggered downstairs and into the bathroom. Splashing cold water shocked me awake, or at least making me a bit more coherent. I rubbed my eyes, blinking and looking down at my hands I noticed ink blots in random places between my knuckles—oh good lord, please don't let me have said anything embarrassing!

With new vigor I raced back upstairs, fighting off the wave of nausea at the sudden burst of movement, freezing in my doorway, I noticed my journal spread open on the floor, not too far from where I woke up. The pen just a foot or so away; I made my way towards it and tentatively picked it up. Perching on the edge of my bed I looked down at the words I had written.

I couldn't help the chuckle that escaped me at the end—had I really done—said—that? To a man who, for all I know, could be a psychopath and really does get into my flat on a nightly basis to leave me these odd notes. What other explanation could there be? Surely my journal's not so special to hold some time traveling abilities—that's right unfair if that's the case.

I tossed the journal on the bed; he could've already read it for all I knew. Ripping it out wouldn't save my dignity; _I_'ve seen those near damning words. With another chuckle I climbed to my feet and headed towards my closet to gather my things for the day. It was my last day at the clinic and oddly enough, I'm not sad. I'm more relieved then anything.

A small buzz met my ears, it took me a moment to figure it out—I forgot to turn my phone off vibrate. I dashed across the room and dug under my pillow then promptly hit end; that was the fourth time 'NUMBER BLOCKED' has called me since yesterday.

-x-

With a last round of hugs and a sad smile on my face I finally left the clinic and begun walking home. It felt as if eyes were on me, but I ignored that feeling and continued on. I always enjoyed the nights where the sky was clear enough you could just make out the stars. They always intrigued me.

With a slight chuckle I recalled the jibes tossed my way the past few days; ever since that first note. I suppose I had been smiling a bit more, but could I really account it for the oddity that is this new, erm, friend? Acquaintance? Pen-pal? I'm not really sure what to call him; he hasn't told me his name. It's not important; of course his name is important!

Speaking of, I quickened my pace—surely he's written back by now. I nearly broke out in a slight jog the last two blocks home and nearly crashed into a couple as I rounded the corner. With a slight apology I kept going. I froze as I unlocked the door; here I was, acting like a school girl again, as if awaiting that phone call from that one special bloke. I couldn't quite make sense of this, but I was most definitely intrigued to find out why specifically the two of us had this sort of communication. I banged my head against the door before letting myself in.

Once in the sitting room I tossed my jacket onto the couch and kicked off my shoes and headed upstairs. I knew instantly he had replied, it was left open and placed neatly on the nightstand. I quickly climbed onto my bed, curling my legs beneath me and placing the journal on my lap; I blinked, I didn't recognize that handwriting.

_**While I find this little game between you and Sherlock absurd, I have let him have his fun. However, I will warn you—and only this once—to leave him be. While I cannot account for your ability to enter and leave his flat unnoticed, I will not allow you to toy with his mind any longer. John Watson is dead, he died while in Afghanistan. Shot right through the heart.**_

_**End this now; for if you do not, I promise I will find you and end you. **_

I bit my lip, my fists curling the edges of my journal—he's real dammit! He ran into me, flipping through to the page that was still turned down, right there in my own handwriting—he's real. I'm real and I'm not dead! I flipped back to the newest entry and let a slight smile show; I now knew his name—Sherlock. I trailed a finger over his name and pulled at the page marker only to notice the torn edge of a page, as if it was ripped out.

Anger rose within me once more at those words; who was this person to tell me what I could and couldn't do? I tossed the journal away, not caring that it slid down between the mattress and the headboard. I flopped down on my bed and glared up at the ceiling—this truly shouldn't be bothering me so much. It made absolutely no sense at all, though I suppose that's what kept me interested, the mystery behind it all.

I had three more days till I shipped out and the last thing I'll have to remember this flat by is that dreadful threat. Perhaps he had written me back and this person ripped it out, not wanting our communication to continue. My ringtone burst the silence I was shrouded in, causing me to jump slightly—'NUMBER UNKNOWN'. Finally being fed up I answered.

"Hello, Watson speaking?"

I heard a slight intake of breath and then the click of a hang up. I groaned and tossed the phone across the room, its thud to the floor didn't bother me. I stared up at the ceiling, my thoughts never ceasing—though one thing is for certain, I will prove that person wrong—I will not die.

* * *

**Alright my dears, if you hadn't figure it out, this one is in John's POV and any guesses as to who wrote that lovely little letter? XD**

**There will be a difference in time with the next chapter-the boys finally meet! :D**


	9. Hello, I'm John

**"Maybe we should properly introduce ourselves."**  
-The Lake House

* * *

I walked away from the black sedan perched on the corner. The door opening, however, caused me to stop. He never got out unless it was of great importance. His umbrella made a sound on the sidewalk and I couldn't help but to turn around. In his outstretched hand was an old, leather-bound, worn, journal. It seemed familiar to me, but I couldn't place it.

"Forgive me, Sherlock."

He walked towards me and offered the book to me. I glanced at the name in the lower corner and it was if all at once, memories I had thought deleted flooded back. I hadn't seen it for two years—I hardened my stare and took the book from his hands. Without a word I turned and walked away, ignoring his calls of my name. I had thought that he was embarrassed of me, had stopped writing to me. I was only being honest.

I bumped into numerous people, my fist clutched desperately to the journal as I made my way back to 221b. I banged on the door, impatient for Mrs. Hudson to answer; only when the door opened, I was looking into the face of a man. I met eyes that seemed to hold so much behind them. He smiled politely through the crack of the door.

"You must be Mrs. Hudson's tenant upstairs. Hello, I'm John, John Watson; oh sorry, do come in."

He stepped back and opened the door wider to let me in; I heard Mrs. Hudson shout a hello from her rooms. I muttered a hello and then raced upstairs and closed the door behind me. Leaning against it I could hear Mrs. Hudson tell John that this is normal behavior for me. He chuckled as I heard her door close.

I tore my scarf and coat off and tossed them—for once—wherever. I rushed to the sofa and sat down, placing the journal in my lap—my gaze locked on the name—_Dr. John H. Watson._ I turned to the last page, my eyes widened, there in perfect script was Mycroft's handwriting. My brow furrowed and I felt something course through me, a need to express frustration in the most inappropriate of ways. I felt like I wanted to _hit_ Mycroft.

_**John Watson is dead, he died while in Afghanistan. Shot right through the heart. **_

I gazed down to the bottom of the page, and in the familiar scrawl of John there stood five words that dissipated all anger: _I WILL PROVE YOU WRONG__._ If the man downstairs is this John Watson, the same one that previously owned this property—this is his, and he is very real. I grinned to myself as I ran a finger over his words. I clutched the journal closer, in doing so I noticed that some of the pages had worn edges, as if they were held one too many times.

More corners were folded down—Mycroft had read this numerous times then. He felt guilty; this is why he asked me to forgive him. He took the first real connection I ever had with anyone away from me. Recalling words from my missing page I sighed; I set the book down on the table and rose to my feet. Crossing over to my violin case, I picked it up and opened it, taking out my second most prized possession. I needed to think and this was the best way I knew how—now that Mycroft and Lestrade removed my two prior methods.

Resting my chin in place, positioning my fingers, their tips relishing in the feel of the strings beneath them—with a quick flick of my right wrist, I began to draw the bow across the neck, the resulting vibrations of strings and wood reverberated around the flat, surrounding me in unseen warmth that always left me feeling less alone.

My thoughts swirling around, my mind attempting to put the pieces together—why couldn't I solve this? That man was definitely military trained, his posture and hair cut told me that much. The sorrow and guilt in his eyes tells the tale that he's seen horrible things—yet there was still something more behind them.

What seemed like mere minutes to me, turned out to be an hour and a half; the door downstairs opened and I heard muffled conversation through my current melody—goodbyes perhaps? I heard the front door open and close; I quickly shifted to the window, watching the man—John Watson—walk away, a slight limp in his step as he leaned on a cane he so obviously didn't need. How had I missed the cane at first—oh right, the door. With a deep breath I called for the one person who could answer all my questions.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

I needed details.

"Sherlock, dear, I know you better then that."

I jumped at the sound of her voice being so close; I turned around, finding her sitting in my arm chair. How had I missed her approaching footsteps? Ah, yes, distracted by that John fellow.

"You'll ask me proper what you want to know, none of your method."

Mrs. Hudson is perhaps the only person to ever make me still feel like a child sometimes; berating me in ways that always leave me feeling sheepish. I felt my cheeks tinge as I gently set my violin back in its case and slinked across the room to the couch.

* * *

**Mmkay, so um, yeah... 0.o**

**I have the feeling you're going to feel this is very anti-climactic.**

**Just as a side note, Sherlock doesn't take well to confusion..._at all_. **


	10. Lingering on the faded lines

Standing in the middle of the bare, pedestrian flat, glancing at all of the meager belongings—I took a deep breath—this was perhaps the second hardest thing I will have ever done; the first just an hour prior.

I recalled earlier, the look in his eyes, the emotions he kept hidden from the rest of the world; a world so quick to condemn him to his self-imposed isolation. My intention, as always, was to merely see how he was holding up. He hasn't trusted me properly since we were younger—recent events haven't helped.

The moment my foot touched pavement I noticed his step falter—I was serious. The glare sent in my direction before he turned his back on me, it pierced through my highly constructed barriers, causing me to ache in a way I haven't felt since he was ten. The moment he rounded the corner, out of my sight, I reached into my left breast pocket and fingered its contents.

Oh, Sherlock, forgive me—I mumbled to myself. I stepped over to the desk where I knew a standard issue pistol resided, the safety box unlocked. With a trembling hand I reached into my jacket pocket, producing an old scrap of paper. Handwriting I would recognize in an instant, lingering on the faded lines; with a heavy sigh I unfolded the paper and placed it down on top of the closed laptop. Reading, perhaps, the most heartfelt words anyone would ever get out of him.

Reaching back into my pocket I grasped my pen and wrote in the simplest of words—_**You have proved me wrong.**_

**__****__****__****

* * *

**************

I rather liked this bit...just not sure if you lot do. It's a bit of a filler, 'cause what I wanted to have happened didn't pan out how I wanted, so I had this come about instead. There's only one thing you really need to get out of this chapter, which I hope I made blantantly obvious.

**************Any guesses as to whose POV this is? ****************I also think I did abysmally at it, for he is so much more eloquent then I will ever be. XD (If that's not a massive hint, I don't know what is.)**

**__****__****__******************************Apolgoes if I told you Sherlock's letter would be here...eh, it's mentioned...I did have it, but it will most definitely make its appearance next chapter...which will be up tomorrow! I am off from work and classes, so I've all day to do whatever tickles my fancy.


	11. You're Sherlock

**Don't give up on me. **

-The Lake House

* * *

I wiggled my toes into the armrest of the couch, this stretch of boredom will be the death of me, or perhaps the further mutilation of the various toes that mousy girl from the morgue lent to me. My gaze lingered on the journal spread open to the last entry—I'm still reluctant to acknowledge the anger that festers within. Mycroft had no right to take what was not his. I let my eyes travel up the line of ripped paper, the words I had written—I clenched my jaw, Mycroft had read them.

A knock at the front door breaks my concentration. Mrs. Hudson was out visiting her niece, Lestrade hasn't called or text and Mycroft wouldn't dare show his face right now. I swiftly got to my feet, tugged my dressing gown tighter around me and silently made my way down to the door. Opening it swiftly, I momentarily froze at the sight of John Watson on the sidewalk. He stood leaning on his cane and a scrap of paper clutched tightly in his opposing hand. He was nervous.

"Mrs. Hudson is out for the day."

He nodded.

"I know, I'm not here for her, I'm actually here to speak to you."

I met his gaze, it was sturdy and highly guarded—he should not intrigue me. There was nothing exciting about him. Not even the back-story Mrs. Hudson made me drag out of her. With slight apprehension—unknown to him of course—I opened the door wider.

"Make it quick, I don't have all day, I'm a busy man."

He stepped inside, brushing past me and made his way up the stairs.

"Apparently so, to still be in your dressing gown at two in the afternoon; wouldn't want to keep you."

I narrowed my eyes at his back and followed him up to the sitting room. He stood in the doorway, as if judging me from the state of the room. I moved through the door to the kitchen and waited for him to say something—everyone always did. His minute movements stopped, he was staring ahead of him and looking down; the fist clutching the paper clenched.

He stumbled over to the couch, his gaze locked on the open journal. Sitting himself down, dropping his cane, he reached out with a shaky hand and brought the journal to his lap. The paper in his fist, he unfurled and pressed it down, eyes widening as the torn seams matched perfectly—well as best they could given their wear. He blinked in quick succession and then his gaze lifted deliberately to my own. Recognition, whether to me or the journal, possibly both, flashed through his eyes before he spoke above a whisper.

"You're Sherlock."

I gave a slight nod; he only knew that from Mycroft's threat. I watched in silent amusement as his thoughts were made so easily read across his face. Through the slight nervousness, the mild panic, the confusion and over all apprehension, there remained a spark of elation in his eyes. I smiled to myself; at least he was glad to have met me.

"I tried for a month after—I thought that you were embarrassed by my admittances. I could not find your journal to prove that while my defects are more than abundant, there is more to me."

His fingers curled around the edges of the journal as he shook his head.

"I, I never got to read your entry till I found it when I got to my flat last night."

The sound of a mobile going off cut him short, he fumbled through his pocket and gave me an apologetic look. He murmured with the caller and then quickly hung up. He placed the journal back on the low table and rubbed his thigh—he was leaving.

"I'm needed at the clinic I work for, are we, can we…"

I nodded.

"Of course."

He got to his feet and made his way to the stairs and down to the front door. I moved to the landing, he gave a small smile and wave before he stepped out, closing the door behind him. The moment the door clicked I rushed back to the couch, curling my legs beneath me I pulled the journal onto my lap, my words staring up at me—proof that I was not what I claimed to be. I ran a finger down the edge, a few faded water spots littered the page, barely causing old ink to bleed.

**You should consider yourself so lucky to have a family that outwardly cares for you in such a strong manner. I used to have a brother who I could tell everything to. I learned early on though, my family was not a unit of strength for me to rely on.**

**I have a previous address, however, if this works where you're there and I am here, years apart as I suspect, well, I also learned early on not to open mail from names I do not recognize. I would apologize for my harshness, but I am only being honest. **

**Uni was a learning experience for me, not only with my studies, but with people. My upbringing forced me into a certain social realm and I never quite fit. No one was ever on my level of understanding; I doubt anyone ever will be—except for my brother perhaps. I observe people, I could tell you your whole life story, right up till the moment we started speaking—many people found that to be annoying. No amount of money and education can account for the lack of maturity sent my way. ****None****. **

**I learned early on that to be myself, it was better to be done alone. I am very accustomed to being alone.**

**I assure you, I am very much alive. **

**A hopeless romantic? I suppose if we're being honest with each other, as is custom I believe between acquaintances, I don't think I am capable of such basic emotions. Or at the very least, I have never met anyone worth the attempt or the effort. Though, dare I say, it warmed me to know that I had made a slight impact on your daily happenings; enough for others to take notice. **

**I hope you survive; wishing injury or death upon another is not something one should do—terrible manners, or so that's what Mummy tells me. Though quite honestly, I hope you survive. I need to solve this, solve you. I don't think my mind will rest if you die. I do not take disappointment well.**

**Goodnight, John. **

Smoothing the uneven surface—a futile attempt—I felt, for the eighth time in my entire life, a true tear fall.

* * *

**My _DEEPEST_ apologies for not having this update on Friday as I oh so promised! **

**Again, my gratitude to your feedback, the favorites, and the alerts, you lot truly make my days a lot better! :) **

**I might have rushed this, so if it's rough in any way/shape/form, sorry!**


	12. Most basic of all relationships

**I'm doing this beforehand this time around. **

**I actually like this bit. I mentioned to a few that Mycroft and Sherlock would have another chat...here it is.**

**I'm half through the next chapter, which holds a much longer meeting between John and Sherlock. :)**

**Again, my gratitude for your feedback cannot be put into words. I love the questions you ask, the guesses for what's to come next-all of it! **

* * *

I sat with my back stiff, my fingers drumming on the armrest of the rarely used leather chair. My lips pressed in a thin line as I stared at the carpet at my feet. It's been changed since the last time I was here.

"Sherlock, stop it with your internal tantrum."

I let my gaze rise to meet Mummy's. She merely raised an eyebrow and I loosened up.

"He had no right to take it."

She took a sip of tea, her gaze demanding that I do the same. I reached to my right and picked up the small cup and took a sip. I could feel her gaze, she was reading me.

"You shouldn't have kept secrets from him, or from me."

I swiftly put the cup down, the small clink of cup and dish alerted her of my irritation. I knew he was coming, she never demands my presence unless we're both to be before her. She calmly set her cup down and folded her hands in her lap and leveled me with a stare that left no room for error on my part.

"He has informed me that he is deeply troubled by his actions, and don't even dare interrupt me Sherlock. You two are vastly different, but you are still brothers."

I clenched my jaw and remained silent. I could never talk back to Mummy; I did it only once—I was eight and I have not done it since. The chime of the doorbell announced Mycroft's arrival. I could only listen as Mummy smoothed invisible wrinkles, the soft click of Mycroft's umbrella with every other step—I didn't want to be here.

"There you are my dear boy, I take it your Anthea is waiting for you in the car?"

His barely visible smile was all the confirmation she needed. He crossed the room and took a seat next to Mummy on the couch. I could feel their gazes on me, the disappointment at my silence during my days at university, the shame Mycroft felt for not having noticed anything and the hurt Mummy feels now that she believes she has failed me.

"You two will not leave this room till you have come to an understanding; Mycroft, I will be in the gardens with your assistant."

We both nodded and watched as she walked from the room. I could feel Mycroft's gaze return to me. I hated the emotions coursing through me; I have tried so hard for so long to keep them at bay.

"I had looked into a Dr. John H. Watson, Sherlock, everything pointed to a deceased man. Your intelligence leaves a whole knack of naivety you overlook. I did not want someo—"

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"And I have told you that I do not need you to hold my hand! I am fine and as you admitted, you were wrong about Dr. Watson."

I let out a harsh breath, my fingers clenching and unclenching in a fist. I hated feeling like I am vulnerable, like I needed to depend on Mycroft to fix things like he did when we were younger.

"She will know if we are still at odd ends with each other, there is no use in dragging this out."

I narrowed my gaze.

"You left; I managed uni on my own, apparently it's normal for someone to be the target of taunts and pranks, I was more than capable of handling myself."

"You deflect Sherlock, deflect from current issues; you're not emotionless, no matter what self-diagnosis you've given yourself."

"I am not deflecting; I am merely saying what you don't want to admit. I know the part of the letter that bothers you the most. The piece of me that I have never shared with anyone, not even my family—how am I supposed to do that when the most basic of all relationships are meant to be learnt at home, when my own family failed to show me how?"

For the first time in years I saw Mycroft's resolve crumble. His shoulders slumped and he cradled his head in his hands.


	13. I'll tell you over dinner

I didn't pity him, but I couldn't find the words to describe what I was feeling. He lifted his head, his sad gaze met mine and I realized in that moment, those faded water spots on that missing page were his.

"You left Mycroft, you left me with her."

"She loves you, in her own way, she does. I promise you that."

I pressed my lips into a thin line. He was hopeful that I would forgive him; intrusion to my privacy is nothing compared to what's really eating away at him. I turned my head towards the hall—in her own way; I'd scoff if I knew it wouldn't hurt him.

"I do not need to be placated, that's the past and I have noticed it is better to leave things there then to drag them up repeatedly."

I risked a quick glance at him; he was still staring at me, reading me in the way that only he can. I climbed to my feet and looked down at him—the only time I could. He knew I was leaving, he'd tell Mummy I walked out; visits like these usually end so. I moved towards the hall but faltered when he called my name in a voice I haven't heard since were young, but I didn't turn around.

He let out a sigh. I could imagine him pressing the pads of his index and middle fingers to his temples.

"Don't ever doubt _mine_, Sherlock."

I clenched my jaw; that was the first time I will have ever heard Mycroft utter those words aloud.

"Let it alone Mycroft. I understand now."

I continued down the hall to the front door; closing it behind me once outside, I leant against it. I couldn't deal with this right now—or at all. I quickly stiffened my posture and pulled my mobile out of my pocket and called for a cab. I climbed onto the rail of the staircase and pulled my knees to my chest.

I pecked through my mobile, going back to one number—John's clinic. It only took me twenty minutes to call various clinics—who knew there were so many—and ask which of them has a Dr. John Watson employed. I highlighted the number, hesitating to make the call—did people do this? Was this normal? Would he think so strangely of me? No, he searched me out. I pressed the button to call. Five rings in a woman's voice came on; I asked if Dr. Watson was in, she put me on hold. The line clicked after a few moments of retched noise constituted as music.

"Dr. Watson speaking, how may I help you?"

I fought off the urge to smile.

"Hello John, I'm aware that this is considered highly unprofessional and most likely unorthodox between new acquaintances, however, I was wondering if you were hungry—are you?"

A soft chuckle met me through the ear piece.

"This must be Sherlock; I suppose I am. Are you asking me out to dinner?"

I smirked at the teasing in his voice.

"The manner in which you left my flat the other day indicated that you wanted to further discuss our current situation and your journal. You're slightly embarrassed of where you currently live which is why you sought me out at my place of residence; London is hard on an army pension. You traveled across the city to speak to me and to have it cut short as it did, you're bothered."

"Anything else you want to tell me?"

Another soft chuckle erupted through the ear piece.

"I'll tell you over dinner; Angelo's, it's not far from your clinic. If I am not there, merely ask for Angelo himself and tell him you're there for me. Your shift ends in an hour correct?"

"Yes."

"Good, I will see you soon."

I hung up without a response and this time I didn't fight the smile creeping onto my face. I listened as the wind rustled the bushes below me; Mummy was always one for decoration. The breeze carried her forced yet gentle laughter from the east side of the manor in the gardens.

I often hid there when I was younger, after Mycroft left for university. There's a small, rather crude, bee keeper in the far corner, near her rose bushes. The first time I ever attempted keeping them; I had a record of only seven stings. They're harmless creatures, but utterly fascinating nonetheless.

The cab pulling into the drive broke me of my thoughts. I double checked my pockets, making sure I had some notes before climbing down and descending the stairs.

* * *

**Hello my dears! I'll have the next part up in a bit! I know I promised John and Sherlock's interaction this tie around, however, this filler bit came about. -.-**


	14. A moment of hesitation

**I'm going to do this before once again. I used a piece (or two or possibly three) from ASIP, you'll most undoubtedly recognize what I borrowed from the brilliant G & M. XD **

**This will probably be my last update this week; I'm going away Fri-Wed (between work, homework, auditing courses, friend/life drama, I haven't had any time to pack!). I'm visiting my very own John Watson; a best friend from college! :D I haven't seen her in two years.**

**I classify this as a filler chapter, regardless that it's John and Sherlock interacting. I don't like it, but it had to happen and the next chapter will have another bit of a time change.**

**I hope you darlings have a wonderful weekend, and I'll have an update for you (hopefully) next Friday. **

**PS: I'm someone's beta! I felt like sharing, I got so excited when I was asked. XD (It's that nerdy English major in me.)**

* * *

I paid my fare, opting to walk the last two blocks to Angelo's. I couldn't help but think he might not show, he never did confirm whether or not he would. I burrowed my hands into my pockets, clenching my jaw—preparing for a surprised Angelo and another lonely dinner.

Weaving in and out of people I kept my destination in sight; hope flared from deep within me at the sight of Angelo standing outside the door, as if waiting. His head darting left and right every odd interval—he's searching, perhaps John did show. When I was just across the street I heard his loud cheerful greeting.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes, your guest is waiting for you!"

I quickly crossed the street and followed him in, my eyes immediately darting around his establishment for John. Spotting him, seated, something within me felt lighter, almost content. He was in a button-up; at least we were both over-dressed. He smiled and stood as I approached the table Angelo had reserved.

"Choose whatever you like, I will take care of your table personally. Excuse me, I will grab you a candle."

I noticed the slight tinge to John's cheeks as Angelo walked away. His gaze slowly made its way back to me as I removed my coat and sat down.

"Hello John, long day?"

He clumsily sat back down and nodded. I took in the stress lines surrounding his eyes and the slight frown lines at the corners of his mouth—a lot of bad news, or unhappy with the ailments his patients had him cure. The odd ink splotches on his fingertips denote the latter.

"Hi Sherlock, how was your day?"

I smirked; at least he was genuinely interested in my answer as he deflected from himself. I let my smirk turn into a slight smile at Angelo's reappearance with a candle and two glasses of water. John's pink tinge returned a little brighter this time.

"Dreadfully boring, it was an obligatory family gathering."

He took a sip of water, letting his fingertips toy with the contours of the glass after he set it back down. He eyes would dart away every forty-two seconds after he watched Angelo walk away; he was nervous, but why? Was there shame in what we were doing? Did he know another patron? Did he realize that he'd rather our correspondence have remained confined to the journal? Rather we had never actually met? I needed to stop letting Mrs. Hudson talk me into watching mundane daytime telly.

"I am uncertain as how to carry on our conversation. I fear of repetition in the things we've already written of, however, if it's comfortable for you to revisit those topics we can. I will admit that I am not the best at people, well living ones at least."

He gave a vague nod; his nerves were subsiding and I felt myself relax a little.

"You don't have a girlfriend then?"

I raised an eyebrow at his bluntness of conversation topic.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

He nodded, not at all bothered by my own form of honesty.

"Alright, do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine by the way."

I leaned forward on my left arm, head resting on my hand as my elbow sat on the table and smirked.

"I know it's fine."

His cheeks were pink once more.

"So you got a boyfriend?"

I shook my head, "No."

He nodded once again.

"Right, okay, you're unattached, like me. Fine. Good."

I slightly narrowed my eyes, keeping our gazes locked.

"John, erm, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered, I'm really not looking for any—"

His eyes widened.

"No! I'm…not asking, no…I'm just saying it's all…fine."

"Good. Thank you."

I had disappointed him; he wouldn't say, but thought he was hiding it. Then again, if I were being honest, I should not have said those words; we both had expressed our long stretch of loneliness.

"Excuse me gentlemen, Mr. Holmes I brought two of your dish, I do hope you enjoy. Is there anything I can get for either of you?"

Angelo set down the plates of pasta on the table in front of us and smiled. I doubt John would piece together that this was the very man whom I was muttering about the very night he and I first had any interaction. I had run into him, and now that I specifically recall, I was only three blocks west of here, not too far from John's clinic. Had he been leaving or heading to work?

"Um, no thank you, 'm fine."

I just shook my head and reached for my utensils. Angelo bid us a good evening and stepped away. Silence settled between us as I picked at my meal and John dug in with vigor. Perhaps a way to stifle conversation, it was rather rude to speak with food in your mouth. After a few minutes of somewhat uncomfortable silence John spoke up.

"Is the owner, is he the man you were muttering about that time you ran into me? The one I reference in my journal?"

I took a sip of water and nodded. Letting my fingertips trail the beads of condensation as they fell to the table top. I met his gaze and noticed the small smile I'm certain he was unaware of even sharing. I smiled in return though, pleased that he's able to retain information and relay it; he's a step above others.

"Yes, I got him off a murder charge, he was actually housebreaking across town whilst the murder he was being accused of occurred."

"So he does this for you as payment then?"

He was curious, not in the manner that suggested he'd take advantage of my various acquired _payments_, but more so that he truly wanted to know what warranted such things. I took a rather decent sized bite of my meal and looked him over. I could tell his limp was fake, but why? What hid behind it?

"If that is how you choose to perceive it, then yes."

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket; a moment of hesitation flashed through my mind, to _not_ see who would be bothering me now, however, my curiosity outweighs all else.

"Excuse me."

I pulled it out and noticed Lestrade's name. He wants a consult in the morning; knowing his habits, he'll forget to call.

"Duty calls?"

I glanced up at John, he looked as if I had planned someone to interrupt, asking for someone to end this first meeting.

"Yes, but merely a reminder for tomorrow morning."

He relaxed; my staying relieved him. Odd; most people would be making excuses to get away from me. Then again, most people and I did not have a prior, albeit improbable, flow of conversation.


	15. Emotional turmoil

**Hello my darlings! I am sorry the delay, life kind of fell apart after my mini get away. **

**I was kind of at a loss of where to go, however, I came up with this bit. I've mixed feelings for this chapter, but that's most likely just 'cause of everything I've got going on on my end. **

**I thank you all again for your reviews last chapter! I'd have replied personally, but between leaving and coming home I haven't had the time. So this is for you loves. :) **

**(I'll end my word vomit now.)**

* * *

"Something's different about you, you almost look _happy_."

I snapped my head up at Lestrade's accusation, removing my focus on the corpse at my feet. His brow quirked, but his eyes told me he was studying me—he has been around me a while now, something must have rubbed off on him. A snicker from the door disrupted our eye-contact—Anderson. He had dark circles under his eyes, another sleepless night. Mostly due to the fact his wife's away and he thrives on the not so secret affair with Donovan.

"He probably thinks we're all idiots because apparently we've missed something of great importance."

"We _are_ idiots Anderson."

I was taken back by Lestrade's outburst and the look on Anderson's face told me he was too. Without a word he backed out of the room and closed the door behind him. I gazed up at Lestrade once again, something was off; he was hiding something from me.

"Sherlock, look, I, that won't happen again."

I stood, pulling off the gloves and shoving them in my pockets; the dead man on the floor had a drug induced heart attack. He was also only thirty-two, having an affair on his wife with his office partner.

"His partner's wife is a pharmacist; she's the one who knew the proper concoction of drugs to induce a seemingly natural heart-attack. She wasn't thrilled of the notion her husband was cheating on her, let alone with another man. Find her and I'm certain you'll find this case solved. Yet another lover's spat turned ugly. I'm almost willing to give up your phone calls; the last four cases have been of this nature."

His slight smirk bothered me; he had heard me, but the case wasn't what was on his mind. I narrowed my gaze.

"What are you hiding from me? You think you have something to hold over me, that much is apparent with your sending Anderson away—you think I would be bothered by whatever you assume will exploit me?"

He squared his shoulders, the smirk growing—this had better be good.

"Got a phone call from your brother, he asked me to look up a bloke on your behalf."

I rolled my eyes; leave it to Mycroft to interfere yet again with my life and give Lestrade the very wrong impression. His soft chuckle struck something within me—he was mocking me.

"Mycroft has all the information on him that he will ever need to know, all he did was give you information to misconstrue as you so blatantly have done."

"Sherlock, we care; if this Watson fellow makes you happy then why deny yourself that?"

He leveled his stare with mine, regarding the emotions behind what I was saying, and what I wasn't.

"Like your marriage has so gracefully fallen apart, that happiness you once depended on slipped through your fingers; I'll save that sort of emotional turmoil for the rest of you who seem to crave and thrive on it. If there is nothing else you need for the case I'll be leaving."

I couldn't help the sting to my voice; it was so much easier for me to hide behind the exterior I've mastered since my university days. Did they not understand that letting someone in terrified me? I knew pain, of all sorts—I vowed to never let myself go through any of it again.

"If I need anything else I know how to reach you."

I could hear the resignation in his tone; he was sorry for bringing it up, but he was happy that I was letting someone in. With a curt nod I turned and left, making sure to slam the door on my way out. I opted to walk home, it was only a twenty minute walk and I could find so many things to occupy my mind that by the time I reached home I would have deleted this entire conversation.

Meandering through the throngs of Londoners I let my mind wander back to dinner a few nights ago. I had smiled, really, truly, genuinely smiled at another person; I hadn't done that since I first recalled telling Mycroft of my bee keep. His eyes lit up with something I've never identified for; he's the only person to ever look at me with such a thing. He was happy that I was overjoyed at my crude attempt. I offered to show him but he requested photos, bees often were attracted to him in the worst way. As he thumbed through them he told me how proud of me he was—that was the last time I felt something warm me from the inside.

John had made me forget about the people surrounding us at Angelo's. He had me so caught up in tales—so mundane yet they fascinated me—about his job and the people he works with and has helped. I felt my lips quirk at another memory; I was proven wrong. I had deduced his recent return from war—Afghanistan, his limp was psychosomatic, but he was injured. His slightly estranged sibling was an alcoholic, but still cared about John's well-being, enough to offer him the mobile, a rather expensive one at that. A gift from a wife; I laughed when he told me that my deduction was brilliant, but his eyes told me I was wrong about something. Finding out the Harry in mention was his sister shocked me, but after hearing his laughter I slowly joined him.

I heard my phone chime and quickly reached in my pocket for it. It was a text from John—_Are you busy tonight? Would you be willing to do a "dull" thing and watch a film with me? I'd call but I don't want to truly interrupt you if you're working a case. I remember you said you didn't like distractions._

**Case solved. I suppose a film would be fine, though I will give fare warning, I might not be able to keep quiet, especially since they're so easy to figure out. Certain distractions, I am finding, are quite welcome.**


	16. I wasn't alone

I fidgeted with my cane, twirling it back and forth; the large digital clock told me the film ended in eight minutes. I'm not sure why I sat there the entirety of it, waiting on a man who most likely forgot that he actually agreed to come out with me. Or perhaps he thought I was asking him on a date—sure sounded like I did.

I thumped my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. I suppose it _could_'ve been constituted as a date, but if I were to follow that line of thought, dinner the other night should've been our first date—he even asked me! I groaned inwardly, I shouldn't be acting like a school girl about this.

I sat in relative silence, the films surrounding me muffled by the walls. I snapped my eyes open at the sudden change in the air surrounding me. I narrowed my eyes at the man standing in front of me.

"You're always like this aren't you?"

His left eye twitched just slightly as he opened his mouth to speak but I cut him short.

"Don't, just _don't_ Sherlock. I don't want an excuse about you forgetting due to some experiment, or another case popped up—no one is that forgetful, not unless they _want_ to be."

He seemed to fold inwards on himself, wrapping his arms around his torso. At least he had the decency to look remotely ashamed.

"John, I—"

He seemed to be actually searching for the right words to use. Or perhaps he was just finding a way to dumb something down for me—everyone's an idiot compared to him. Rightfully so but that doesn't mean he should tell me so every moment he can.

"I told you I am terrible at this, a—"

"What are you doing here? Am I just some sort of experiment for you?"

The slight hesitation let me know the answer. I got to my feet and attempted to walk away. I knew I was over reacting, but despite our short interaction before that dinner, I felt like I wasn't alone. Turning around to face him, I spoke.

"You know Sherlock, I thought I saw between the lines, saw there was more to you than your flaws, but you've proven nothing to me."

He stretched an arm out as if he were reaching for me before he quickly dropped it to his side. His face flashed with some sort of emotion I couldn't identify before becoming the blank face he wore so easily. I turned and walked away from him.

As I left the cinema I felt my left hand start to tremor.

* * *

Hello my dears! Again, deepest apologies for the long wait and this itty bitty chapter to boot. :( Life has been throwing me some wrenches and idiot me can't figure out how to duck. XD

This semester has been kicking me in the bum! Finals are next week and I've a massive project due for my theatre course. I'm the costume designer for my group and it's definitely a lot harder than one would imagine.

Two best friends of mine have yet to realize that I've started distancing myself from them. They can't grasp the concept that I'm not their therapist and their issues require professional help.

I'm also in the process of job hunting; I need to get out of Arby's whilst I still have my soul (mostly) in tact. It's draining the life force I have. I also tend to care too much for my kiddes (not really kids, but I've been there so long they're all 19-22 now, but I've had 'em since they were 16-17); one is homeless, another could be in serious trouble, another comes from a rather crappy homelife, and I really do just care too much about them. Why do I have to be the nice one all the time? I thought I got over that.

Regardless, I'm certain you lot aren't thrilled at my ramblings. I hope you all are well, if not, whatever is bothering you passes soon. :)


	17. Go to him

**I will start out with I've no idea where this chapter came from...so if it just doesn't seem to fit or have anything of substance, I do apologize about that. Also, I didn't edit as much as I usually do, so if there's any mishaps, sorry!**

**That being said, my finals are this week and Thursday through Wednesday next, I will be out of town. Two of my college besties and I will be in New Jersey enjoying ourselves with music and touring New York City (which yes, is in NY, but where we'll be it's literally just a hop over the river). **

**Also, those of you who have recently Favorited and/or added this to your Alerts, I cannot thank you enough! I'm glad you're liking this enough to want to read more! XD **

**To my usual suspects, what can I say, I do believe I'm starting to do this for you. :D **

* * *

"_I sometimes feel as if I'm invisible, as if no one can see me at all_."

-The Lake House

* * *

I watched him leave, limping away from me and through the entry doors, his left hand shook. I had truly affected him so. I glanced around, noting the three people who were now glaring at me; had they heard? Their mutterings told me that yes, indeed they had. I turned on my heel and quickly headed towards the exit.

I knew he wouldn't have gotten far and if I truly wanted to I could follow him. Yet something within me stopped the moment I saw him duck into an alley; he knew I was following and that was his attempt to ditch me. I knew it was highly imperative I remain stoic about this, at least in public amidst the people milling about.

I hadn't felt this sort of tightening in my chest since the day Mycroft left for university. I learned then that it was crucial that I keep all others at arms length. Allowing them any closer resulted in pain and self-doubts and the ever lingering loneliness they so freely give you when they leave you behind. I shook my head, I haven't let myself do this for years, I wasn't about to let some psychosomatic invalid soldier start.

I turned on my heel and slowly made my way back to Baker Street, attempting and horrendously failing to deduce even the basics from those I passed by. Those words should've never come from his lips, his regret was there the moment they departed and perhaps that was the only thing allowing my emotions to remain hidden in their depths.

It was the sight of a familiar black sedan sitting on the corner that caused me to stop.

I could only watch in silent relief and embarrassment as the back door opened and the tip of an umbrella reached for the pavement. I swiftly made my way towards the car and before a foot could even reach the ground I was in the doorway. He was alone, his assistant was either up front or he had actually permitted her an evening for herself. His gaze was fierce yet gentle as he stared me down, knowing immediately everything I couldn't put into words.

He pulled the umbrella back inside and slid over, permitting room for me to slip in beside him. The moment I shut the door the car began to move and for the first time in a long while I didn't want to know where I was going. I knew that John and I both had over reacted, perhaps for the same reasons, or for very different ones. I also knew that I wanted nothing more than to shove a snide remark at Mycroft, but despite all that has happened I wanted him to be my brother. The one I had before he left me at home alone.

I knew he knew where my thoughts had led me. Back to the first night he had left me alone with Mummy. He told me at tea after lunch that he would be away for a while, but he would return for me. I didn't eat that night, Mummy didn't tell me where he went and the thought of having a meal without him didn't sit too well with me. I knew it was unhealthy to go without food, but I knew my body's limits and well, I have survived this long. Besides, people only see what they want to.

I felt my chest restrict even more, as if my lungs were incapable of forming a complete breath. My eyes stung and felt as if there was a build up of toxic chemicals, yet I knew it was only my tear ducts. I recalled lying in my bed that first night after Mycroft's departure, tears falling silently onto my pillow. Even now, they threatened to fall down my cheeks.

I finally took a sharp intake of air and let my eyes close, the pressure causing the built up tears to fall.

"_I thought I saw between the lines, saw there was more to you than your flaws, but you've proven nothing to me._"

"Oh, Sherlock."

I felt his hand rest gently on my left forearm. I didn't want this to turn into an emotional conversation, so I did the one thing he knew I always fell on.

"I am incapable of relationships."

His hand squeezed my arm at my outburst.

"You've _let_ yourself become incapable of having them Sherlock, there's a difference, and stop deflecting. I fear I've let you do that far too much."

His word choice was meant to be condescending but his tone told me otherwise. I opened my eyes and let our gazes re-settle on each other.

"I told you to never doubt my level of affection for you Sherlock. Despite my own misjudgments in the past on behalf of your well being, that is one thing I was most adamant about not giving up on. I might not have ever said the words but I had hoped that all of my actions spoke them."

I knew exactly what he meant with that, but I wasn't going to bait him, this time I wanted to hear him tell me what I already knew. I _needed_ him to.

"Go to him in the morning—ah, don't interrupt me Sherlock. Go to him in the morning and apologize. I'm certain he feels just as guilty for uttering those words, though he was right on one account. You shouldn't want to be that forgetful Sherlock. Now, you will go up and actually get a somewhat decent night of rest. I'll know if you don't."

I wiped at my cheeks and glanced out the window, not even realizing he had been taking me home. Mrs. Hudson had even left a light on for me. I moved to open the door and climb out, the moment my foot touched pavement I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned to look at him and the emotions fluttering through his eyes confused me. His mobile going off disrupted whatever he was about to say and in the second it took for him to answer he was back to the man who occupied a minor position in government.


	18. Mrs Hudson!

The moment my mind came to consciousness I realized that Mycroft had undoubtedly informed Mrs. Hudson that I was to sleep despite any and all protests on my part—they had drugged me. I was even in my bed, a surface I hadn't laid down on to sleep in ages. Sitting up slowly I recalled the conversation Mycroft left me with; the tightening in my chest loosened slightly with that minute moment of my _brother_.

I listened to the soft noises coming from the kitchen—Mrs. Hudson. I quickly hopped out of bed and strode directly towards her. Half-through the sitting room she stopped me with her voice as she bustled around fixing me tea.

"You underestimated me once again Sherlock, that brother of yours can be quite convincing."

"He didn't threaten you did he? If he did Mrs. Hudson I—"

"Nonsense dear, he merely expressed that you sleep, said you'd need it. Did you and John have a domestic? I can't really call it that now, you're not living together, though I'm sure if you were to ask he'd come."

I felt my cheeks flame, glad her back was still to me, fluttering around my various experiments.

"Oh none of that Sherlock, the two of you pestering me about each other; I told Mrs. Turner the other day that the two of you hit it of—"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

She finally turned to face me, a cup of tea in her hands and she started towards me. She motioned for me to sit and I moved the couch and fell backwards.

"I left his address on a note on top of your jar of worms; now don't expect anything of this sort again. I told that brother of yours the same thing."

I took the cup of tea and sipped as she glanced around the room. She tsked and wished me well before she headed back downstairs, mumbling about needing an herbal soother.

The moment I heard her door close I placed the cup down on the low table and rushed towards the small table where the small square note was attached atop the jar of worms. It was clear across the city, no wonder he sought me out here. Then I recalled his words once again and my chest restricted and I crushed the paper in my fist.

I noticed writing on the back side and unclenched my fist; it was Mrs. Hudson's. _**He really is a nice boy Sherlock.**_ I felt my cheeks enflame one more. This was not suitable, I had gone years, decades even, without so much as letting in depth emotions surface. Mycroft was correct, he did let me deflect far too much, allowing me the perfect route to repress feelings I wouldn't even begin to know how to describe; especially now that some of them have awakened within all due to John Watson.

Letting the note fall to the floor I sprinted to my room.

* * *

**I decided to leave you lot with this small blurb of humour...or so I found it amusing. XD**

**I had a total nerdy-fangirl moment just now, finally saw Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part two trailer, and I got teary eyed. That's been my hobby for the past decade, well longer, ever since the first book. I've a feeling I won't know what to do with myself once July 15th passes. Well, only slightly.**

**I leave later today and will not have a post for you lovelies till next weekend most likely, however, updates should pick up as this is my last day of the semester! :D **

**That being said, I hope you lot have a wonderful weekend! **


	19. I lied

I rode the rickety lift to the fifth floor as per Mrs. Hudson's address. There was a young man leaning casually against the wall, his eyes dancing up and down my form. I kept my hands in my pockets and stared at the graffiti covered doors in front of me.

"You're not from this side of town."

It wasn't a question, it was a blunt statement. I ignored him; he seemed the type that thrived on attention.

"You're going to ignore me then, got it. Fifth floor, that's mine you know, never seen you visit before. Only person I know of who'd have someone like _you_ come 'round would be the army doctor with the pretend limp. Poor sod, can't sleep through a night since he's been back. Walls are thin you know, he's a _screamer_."

I turned to his smirking face, a feeling of disproval towards this person flooded through me and his smirk only seemed to grow. His eyes danced with amusement at my apparently obvious anger towards him.

"Ah, knew you'd be in for him. All the pretty ones are."

He stood up, squaring his shoulders as the lift dinged our arrival.

"Cheers."

He slid past me and sauntered down the hall and disappeared around the corner. A door opening to my left brought me back to the task at hand. I glanced at the man backing out of the doorway, and was startled to realize it was the very man I had come across the city for.

"John."

His shoulders tensed at my voice—should I not have come? He slowly turned to me and I could read nothing but guilt in his posture. I suppose I should be the one feeling guilty; I don't know if what I was feeling was related or not, but I felt like part of me wanted to apologize for hurting him emotionally like I did.

"'lo Sherlock, what brings you over?"

He was now guarding himself, putting up an invisible barrier between us. I knew the words I wanted to say, I practiced them with Mrs. Hudson once this morning and she told me—I felt my cheeks tinge pink at the memory—perhaps I should just get on with it.

"I wanted to apologize, a legitimate one. I was told by various sources that how I behaved the other night is not proper, especially towards someone with whom I would like to truly acquaint myself with."

Those were not the words I had so precariously practiced through the morning. He raised a brow and sighed, slumping his shoulders he pushed his door fully opened and ushered me inside. The scarce bit of furniture and proper decorum was the first thing to be noticed; also the first thing that would and has, made John feel slightly inferior in his flat. He walked back to his bed and perched himself on its edge, motioning for me to sit in the only chair—at the desk.

I noticed his journal, lying spread open to the last entry—mine. I let my eyes graze the wrinkled sheet of paper, noting that at this angle, Mycroft's tear stains were more noticeable; however I noticed fresher stains—were those mine? No, they were more recent and I made certain to keep my unwanted tears away from the page. I let my gaze settle on the man on the bed across the room from me. They were his. I had caused him to cry. He was staring down at the journal, shame and something else rolled off him in waves. It was the something else that caused me to speak out.

"I do forget things on purpose…it stems from a long habit I started in uni. I meant it when I told you that I had learned early on in my life that if I wanted to be myself I had to do so alone. Others found my quirks odd and teased me relentlessly for them. Even now, people presumed to be adults treat me differently, some outright speaking their opinions of me…my brother told me I should stop."

His gaze remained locked on his journal but I could tell he was listening. His shoulders had relaxed a bit more. I was doing something correct, or so I presumed.

"John, you must realize that…that while I may not have had the best of examples in relationships, regardless of nature, that I have not…I have never…"

"Sherlock it's okay, really. We both overreacted, probably due to something quite stupid on both our parts…so I'm sorry too."

His eyes had met mine as he spoke my name. He was still holding something back from me, but for some reason, I felt the desire to take whatever I could get from the petite man absentmindedly rubbing his thigh.

"I lied John; at dinner the other evening…I, I—"

My mobile broke through the moment of silence, it would be Lestrade and I knew that I couldn't miss this call. I had been waiting for his call; I let it go to voicemail.

* * *

**Hello my darlings! I've finally had a moment to sit down and give you this update (albeit smal). :) **

**It's mostly filler-ish (though, any guesses as to who Sherlock met on the lift?).**

**My mini get away was exactly what I needed (the company, not so much, but that's life I suppose). I will say, even if you don't listen to him, Bruno Mars is brilliant live. His voice and just the way he and his band mesh together on stage, ugh, it leaves you aching for more. Just sayin'. XD Also, Motley Crue, despite their number in years, they can put on a performance. :D **

**NYC was wonderful as usual. My friends and I were also on MTV, like legit. A show they do called Seven; the lady in charge of the audience was down on the streets and asked if we'd like to be on the show in the audience. It was FREE so we were all for it. XD I even had a camera in my face once. I pity the people who had to see my sunburnt face all up close like that. XD**

**Regardless, I have time to write more freely now! I passed my theatre course, did rather well on my presentation and I am beyond thrilled that this semester is finished!**

**On another note, and completly unrelated, my Mum's getting a puppy! He's seven weeks old, a Beagle/Terrier mix and the cutest little thing I have ever seen...well with the exception of my "nephew" Bosko (my sister's French Bulldog pup). XD **

**I'll end my novel of a note...oh yes, I suppose I'll have another update up soon. And by soon, I mean in an hour or so after posting this one. :)**

**PS: Thanks again for the feedback/favorites/alerts! They really do make my day! If I find that I've gotten them whilst at work, I tell one of my kids (he reads on here too, so he understands). XD**


	20. I'm not used to this

**Did anyone else have issues uploading docs? It's taken me ages to get this bit up. :|**

**I would've had it up after the prior chapter as I stated, however, either my computer or this site was against me doing so. **

**Regardless, I hope you lot like this chapter (albeit another small one). ;)**

**I do promise though, the next chapter will be longer!**

**Thank you to those of you who have favorited and added this to your alerts! :D And of course, those of you who've left reviews!**

* * *

At the sound of his mobile going off I fisted my duvet. He was going to run away again, but I had to be okay with that—hell I already was. I knew he knew the fresh tear stains on that page—why had I left it open?—were mine.

"You're not going to answer that? What if it's important?"

His eyes seemed to be reading me, in that disturbing yet utterly fascinating way they do. I kept his gaze level, not daring to look away—if we were to be honest, I lied too.

"You're far from stupid John, _this_ is important. I am more than capable of judging and managing what I spend my time doing."

I let go of my duvet and slid to the edge, letting the toes of my shoes touch the worn carpet below. I could feel my insides blushing at his slight compliment—which, from what I had gathered of the man perched on my desk chair, a slight compliment was the highest I'd ever get from him. However, I wasn't certain that whatever the _this_ he's referring to is one in the same.

"You lied, about what?"

He narrowed his eyes at me.

"This sort of back and forth is fun for you? I highly doubt it."

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. My insides fluttered at the barest hint of upturned corners of his mouth, which naturally caused me to stare rather unnecessarily at his lips, which then lead to thoughts I certainly should not be thinking about—I'm only a man though.

"It's what people do Sherlock. You said so yourself, we're not really friends, we are more acquaintances, therefore it's normal to learn new things about each other. I suppose I lied as well, and I feel I'm about to make a fool of myself, bu—"

"You're not. I've never had a friend before, let alone anything more; though I've had various bed partners, mostly for one night and as experiments more than anything really. But you, you would not be an experiment for me. We could be successful John; I just don't want to ruin what could possibly be the only true friendship—relationship I would ever have."

I let him read me, read what I had kept hidden from him from the start. Despite our short correspondence, I felt connected to the man across my flat. Connected to him in a way I never thought possible to another human being after being in Afghanistan. I suppose war, destruction, desolation, and death do that to a man—especially in the abundance in which I witnessed.

Nothing ever happens to me—I recall uttering those words this morning to my therapist. I couldn't tell her of my weak feelings towards a man I originally met through my journal, one she asked that I keep.

I closed my eyes and pressed the heels of my hands to them, fighting off the frustration I felt. If I were to admit the truth to myself, I was acting like a school girl with a crush; then again, if anyone ever met Sherlock Holmes and wasn't intrigued by him in any way, there's something wrong with them. I couldn't deny his attractive form, but it was those eyes that truly captured my attention the first time I had met him—years ago.

"John?"

I quickly let my hands fall and snapped my eyes open only to realize that he was now standing in front of me—how had I not heard him move closer?

"I'm fine Sherlock."

"That's not what I was going to say."

I slightly narrowed my eyes at him. He had been staring at my mouth, still was even.

"Is it normal for one to stare at another's mouth? Want to—erm, forgive me John, I'm not used to this."

"It's all fine Sherlock."

His eyes finally met mine and it was as if I could actually see him, the insecure yet brilliant man that hid behind all the eccentricity that was his defense. His eyes darted down towards my mouth once more and I knew, as he slowly moved forward, I would have to let him decide how things would sort out. I sat still, my hands now re-fisted in my duvet, keeping me from just grabbing onto his lapels and pulling him closer. I felt his breath flutter over my nose, his eyes once again locked with mine, they were asking permission. I gave the barest of nods and closed my eyes as his lips tentatively touched my own.


	21. Ability to think

I touched my lips with the tips of my glove covered fingers as I walked towards Baker Street. My mouth twitched upwards in a soft smile; I knew that I would forever refuse to delete the past hour from my memory. I never understood the infatuation with prolonged kisses—I never permitted lips to touch lips whilst I experimented—however, John, he made the very depths of my mind yearn for more.

I made my way between people, occasionally crashing into them while lost in thought—was it normal to find ones-self constantly stuck with another person on their mind? Was it normal to feel a dull ache at the loss of their being around you? My phone interrupted my thoughts and I glanced down as I pulled it from my pocket—oh yes, a voicemail.

Lestrade telling me he needs my help—yet again—I bet Anderson wasn't too fond of this phone call. I turned the corner and crossed the street; Mrs. Hudson left the light on again. I made my way in and up the stairs. I settled down on the couch, my legs folded beneath me and my gaze settled on the skull on the mantle.

"Do you think it wrong of me to ask that John move in? For propriety he could take the upstairs room—I'm certain Mrs. Hudson will have a comment on that, she has one for most decisions I make. Would I be making a right one though?"

I tilted my head just slightly.

"Of course I have to rearrange a few things; he'll find my organized chaos most disdainful, his banal apartment still screamed military order and cleanliness. Mrs. Turner's married ones can share the spotlight for once. Though I suppose you're correct, I do have to take into the minute consideration that he could very well decline."

I blinked rapidly and sat up straighter. I cannot allow that to happen, the man is constantly in rotation within my various thoughts, and on the odd occasion in the past while, if I lick my lips just right, his taste lingers and causes me to recall in vivid detail the hour spent on his bed.

"_Is it normal for one to stare at another's mouth? Want to—erm, forgive me John, I'm not used to this."_

"_It's all fine Sherlock." _

_I finally met his gaze after staring at his mouth; a longing to press my own against them. Wanting to taste what lie behind them, to let them touch mine. I inched forward, slowly, I didn't want to scare him—and it permitted him capable time to back away or shove me to the side. The moment his eyes darted to my mouth I knew I was given permission—whether he realized it or not._

_His fists were grasping at his duvet—he wanted this too, I couldn't help the slight feeling of warmth that spread through me at that notion. I could feel my breath rebound off his features, fluttering between us and the instant our eyes met once more, and the barest of nods I leaned in and pressed my lips gently to his. My eyes closed instinctively and I pressed further into him, my knees knocking the edge of his bed, my fingers reaching forward to balance myself on his shoulders—I felt as if the room were spinning despite our stationary positions. Well mostly stationary. _

_The moment my fingers touched the shoulders of his jacket I held on tightly, feeling how tense he was holding himself—I pulled away and glanced at him. His brows furrowed, eyes still closed, mouth agape, harsh breaths meeting my own. _

"_John?"_

_His eyes snapped open and immediately met my own—I was made speechless at everything he wasn't able to say. I unclenched my right hand and trailed the tips of my fingers up his neck, down his jaw till I could cup his cheek. I ran the pad of my thumb over his lips; his breath hitched. He closed his eyes._

"_Sherlock, don't—I'm trying very hard to contr—"_

_I pressed my lips to his once again. The warmth within me grew to an overwhelming sense of desperation I haven't felt since my early pubescent days. I felt the urge to touch him—anywhere really. My hand cupping his cheek ventured further up, trailing over his ear, only to get lost in his hair. The moment my fingers tugged on those short strands I felt his hands take hold, latching onto my biceps, constricting movement on my part._

_Without even realizing, or noticing for all of three seconds, John had manhandled me, shifting us on his bed. On my back with him on his side leaning over me, and for once, I was willing to let someone else lead—a surprise for him I am most certain. His right hand trailed down my left arm, searching out my hand, clasping our fingers together between us. The short spurts of hot air coming out of his nose caused minute shivers to course through me as his lips claimed mine. Every nerve ending felt like they had fully awakened to maximum use—all due to the small man hovering over me._

_I'd had these bodily reactions before, due to stimulation, my body functions quite well, yet with only our lips, hands and one thigh touching, this is new to me. This longing for John even though he is right there, his body heat mingling with mine—would this happen every time we kissed? What if we progressed, would it amplify these feelings? He pulled back and stared down at me, his cheeks a soft pink, lips red and panting, I couldn't help but to smile._

"_Figure you could stop thinking and just let go?"_

_His slight smirk let me know he caught me off guard—he did. For the third time in my life I opened my mouth without even contemplating what I was saying in the moment._

"_Baker Street, come live with me."_

_His eyes widened a fraction but his smirk turned into a smile. The unspoken 'yes' made me feel giddy inside, a feeling I hadn't felt since the first time Mycroft told me he was proud of me. I used my right arm to reach up and pull him down, pressing my lips up into his—why had I never allowed someone to do this before? My quick shift in his position caused him to reach out with his free arm, he was now fully leaning over me, a slight shift of his leg and he could be straddling me._

_He made a slight groan—not of pain—and began to kiss the corner of my mouth, then down to my chin, up my jaw, down my jugular—oh how delightful that feels—then moved down to my barely visible collar bones and nipped with his teeth. The sound I emitted was embarrassing; I even felt him chuckle against me. I felt him shift, placing one of his legs between mine, a hand ran down my side, tugging at the bottom of my shirt—the moment his fingertips touched my skin I lost the ability to think._

"It appears to me that you are not up to par Sherlock, does not suit you to be lost in thought."

I narrowed my eyes at the man sitting at my desk. He twirled his umbrella and looked at me with a raised brow.

"You'll leave him alone. You've interfered enough."

He gave me a flat stare.

"You know I can't do that. Mummy will wa—"

"She will not! I won't allow her to. You may give her whatever information you feel will please her, but she will not be meeting him."

He nodded; he wasn't done. He wanted to say more but he doesn't know how—I'm not certain I'd permit him to.

* * *

**Deepest apologies for the wait! Life has been a bit on the busy side. **

**I have a puppy now. :D His name is Opie (oh-pea), he's a beagle, terrier mix, and he's about 9 weeks old. He's a handful and too cute for his own good. XD**

**I'm not certain I like this chapter, I revisited it numerous times these past two weeks and finally just gave up and posted this. That being said, if there's any mishaps, I'm sorry, I grew frustated and just wanted this part over with. **

**-J.**


	22. Your darling boy

"She really does mean no harm Sherlock."

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose—no harm! I felt another indignant rush of anger course through me and I could not stop my outburst. Her constant belittling and comparisons to him did nothing to deter my loneliness at his departure to uni.

"She means no harm."

"Sarcasm was never your strong suit little brother."

I snapped my attention to him, he was still sitting at my desk chair but I knew the revelation I had just let slip bothered him. Mummy always doted on her darling Mycroft—he can do no wrong—that's it! He told her.

"You told her I disproved of her methods, that I once despised her for what she is to me. She has attempted on various occasions to offer an apology for which I never accept because I never understood before why she was admitting fault."

I clenched my hands into fists and could feel my heart race. I took a semi-calming breath and leveled my gaze with his now curious one.

"As I told you Mycroft, I do not need to be placated, especially this late in life. The two of you can kindly stop interfering. I have proved that I am capable of handling things on my own, forming my own sort of connections; while they are not to the Holmes family standards, they meet my requirements. That is more than enough for me."

I saw the barest hint of upturn at the corners of his mouth. I couldn't read him, something he enjoyed. Something flashed, disappearing from his eyes and I knew my brother was sitting across the room from me. Only my brother would be amused with my brief moments of emotion—I never am.

"Sherlo—"

"You may leave now."

He pressed his lips into a thin line before standing. I hurt him, more often than not. I didn't even spare a glance as he made his way towards the door. As it clicked shut behind him, my mind was already lost in a memory.

_Breakfast had just been cleared, our cook made my favorite, his way of smoothing over Mycroft's absence. Mummy stood in the entryway of the dining room, a black shawl draped over her shoulders. Mycroft wasn't dead, he was off to university._

"_Sherlock, come with me, I would like for you to read for me."_

"_Yes Mummy."_

_I followed her from the dining room to the library, elated she would ask me to do something I spent years only observing. She sat herself in her usual perch, on the left side of the stuffy couch, the right free for Mycroft to gracefully lounge about. I glanced at my chair, three feet away. _

"_Mycroft finished chapter thirteen yesterday."_

_She held out the tome for me to take. I took it in my hands and stood between the couch and my chair, debating on where to sit._

I curled in on myself. She knew the moment I chose to attempt to sit beside her before I could even take a step, her curt 'don't' spoke volumes she never did. I recognized early on, attending various family gatherings that the seven years between Mycroft and I was not deliberate. I was always kept, at the very least, an arms length from their interactions.

Mycroft was her pride and joy; the young, brilliant, firstborn that was expected as the Holmes heir. Before our father's death, he would often call Mycroft to his study for conversations I never once got to partake in, and were always behind closed doors. Mummy would always go to her garden for the hour Father took him away from her. I was never permitted in the gardens whilst she was in them, and always left to my own devices.

I was sixteen when I finally lost control and expressed to Mummy exactly how I felt. The last time I ever showed emotion to anyone—Mycroft stood in the doorway on a surprise visit home.

_Another sigh interrupted my reading, as she always did when I didn't do something Mycroft did. Years of her nonverbal cues of loathing had finally caught up. I snapped the book shut and the sound caused her to turn her gaze to me, narrowed and hard. I clenched my jaw._

"_Sherlock, what is the matter with you? You know better than to treat my things like that."_

_I curled my left hand into a fist and took a deep breath in through my nose. Her upper lip seemed to curl up just enough to let me know that she thought my internal tantrum was unbecoming. _

"_I will never be like Mycroft, I do not know why you insist on these ridiculous shenanigans to placate yourself with a child you obviously never wanted in the first place. I am far from being an imbecile and that bothers you the most; that you cannot freely talk to me as you wish, for fear that I too, would outsmart you. I am done playing your games, I will not dote upon you the way he did."_

_The shock on her face was not an act. I tossed the book to the floor and stood to my feet. I turned to the door and saw Mycroft standing in the doorway. I narrowed my eyes at him, cutting him off before he could say a word._

"_Oh look Mummy, your darling boy is home."_

_I swept out of the room and disappeared to my own. Vowing the moment I shut the door behind me to never let an outburst like that happen ever again._

* * *

**...erm...didn't plan on that much "angst" as it were...perhaps my own feelings came out with this one? o.0 Actually didn't plan on this chapter at all, it just happened. Regardless, what will happen next, I guarantee most of you will not like...just a warning. (But there's purpose for what I'm about to do! If you're familiar with The Lake House, you might catch my drift.)**

**Regardless, my darlings, your feedback, favoriting and alerting mean the world to me and have been my beacons of light these past few days/weeks since my last update. I meant to have an update last weekend but it was my Mum's birthday, as well as Memorial Day weekend and my family gets together at our house for swimming and boating and other such fun water bits (we live on waterfront property).**

**Puppy handling is time consuming as well, my goodness! I jokingly told my friend the other day, between my seven years in daycare, babysitting and Opie, when the time comes for me to have kids, I will be beyond prepared. XD (Though I know not really.)**

**I'm going away again. I didn't want to leave you without an update, since I seem to have been spreading them out lately (for that I apologize!). I'm going to Florida with one of my best friends from uni. I get to go to the Harry Potter theme park, words cannot be found to express the immense joy, excitement and thrill that I feel. XD I am such a HP nerd! No joke, it's like my hobby. I will be gone from tonight, till the 18th. It has been a long overdue and much needed holiday! :D **

**-J.**


	23. It really is best

A knock on the door startled me from my thoughts—centered on one Dr. John H. Watson. I suppose I can understand now, the complexity that most others must feel—experience?—when they deem someone worthy of their personal affections. I was slightly surprised by the slim man on my doorstep. His thin smile alerted me that this wasn't a social call.

"Hello Sherlock."

I recognized him immediately as the young man from the lift at John's complex. He held a worn, leather book tucked under his arm.

"May I come in or do I just share things here on the stoop?"

I stepped back and let him in, something unsettling fluttered within me, but I led him upstairs to the sitting room. I stood, watching him as he glanced around at my things, seeing me for all that I am.

"This is for you."

I took the offered journal and noticed the marker. I sat down on the edge of my chair and begun reading John's familiar scrawl.

_Sherlock,_

_While I have wanted nothing more than to feel what I did within that hour we shared yesterday evening, and while I may not be on your level of genius, we both know this would never work. _

_I got a letter in the mail, I'm to be re-deployed and I head back out in a week. I'd be lying if I wished you'd disregard this and actually see me as someone you could—would wait for. I know that's just wishful thinking on my part._

_Move on, leave me behind and delete me from your memory. Don't bother to return this, it's yours to keep or toss whichever you prefer. Don't find me either, I've my own means of disappearing when I want to and not even the Holmes brothers can track. Don't even try._

_-John_

I stared down at the words—he must've been in a rush. Or his hand was forced.

"It really is best for Johnny-boy."

I stared at the man before me. There was more to what meets the eye, of that I am most certain, however, he eludes even me. He smirked and stood upright.

"Well I must be off, busy man you know. Take care Sherlock, my dear."

He sauntered across the room and down the stairs. I closed the journal and clutched it to my chest—was this all that I would have of John Watson?

* * *

**-.- I feel like I shouldn't have to say this, but I do: ****I have decided that while I have been very adamant in my admitting to LOOSELY basing this story off the film, The Lake House, a few of you have expressed your opinions, I feel I have to make a point. I am not following that plot bit for bit, just a few tidbits here and there. They share a common building, have a written form of communication, and have met previously. That's about as far as I'm following the film. **

**While this is short, it's the push that is needed for what will be coming next. It's important as much as it is a filler. **

**To those of you who offered feedback for my note, I am grateful. :) Those few words of well wishing really did make a difference. Thank you.**


	24. Very sincerely yours

"Let me let you go."

-The Lake House

* * *

**While I know this is ridiculous, you left this for me, meaning you will never see these words, but I can only hope that perhaps, just as before, these words will find their way to you. More than anything though, I cannot do the one thing you ask of me. Deleting you from memory would truly make it seem as if I had lost my mind, as that is my most prized possession, I simply cannot…however, it's been three days since I was delivered this.**

-x-

**Mrs. Hudson asks of my well-being whenever she's still up when I return to the flat. She dotes, very much—I presume—as a mother does to a child. She tells me whatever I ask about you—she worries. I see it in her eyes when she tries to be a bit more distant, though that distance is due to the outburst I had yesterday morning. Seventeen days of her doting finally caught up with me. **

-x-

**You were right. Mycroft says you're 'off the grid' and if he cannot find you, you truly are gone. I even find myself listening and watching the news, or reading a paper, just to be certain your name does not come up amongst the missing or the dead. Twenty-one days of this John, twenty-one, how many more will I have to endure?**

-x-

**That 'Jimmy' fellow who delivered your journal to me showed up (again) to my flat today. Said he had a whim—a whim John!—that he should see how "Johnny-boy's new 'friend'" is holding up. You've been away for fifty-eight days. I am holding up just fine. I managed a whole thirty-seven days without writing (the notion never went away though, should you ever read these).**

**Something about him does not sit proper with me, as this is the tenth time he's just popped in. Somehow though, he talked me into agreeing to have dinner with him Thursday next. Mrs. Hudson is happy, she thinks he's a nice boy, though no where near as nice a young man as you. He's brilliant John, he keeps up with me when I go off on my tangents. I even took him on a case with me once, Lestrade was amused, Donovan and Anderson were not. It felt wrong John. That is the only word I can use to describe how it felt, as if it would have gone smoother—longer definitely, but you're still far more intelligent than most—had you been the one to accompany me. **

-x-

**Day one-hundred-sixty-two: I miss you.**

-x-

**Four-hundred-ninety-two days John. That is how long I lasted without the touch of another human being in the sense of that hour we shared in your flat. While it was still very much exhilarating and over stimulating, I still thought of you. Jim was nowhere near as gentle as you.**

-x-

**I slept in the upstairs bedroom last night, in fact, upon that very bed is where I'm writing this entry. I came up here with the purpose of saying goodbye John. Seven-hundred-thirty days ago I was given this journal—your journal John. While there are not so many pages, I have written to you quite a lot, but this has to be the last one, not only because there is one sole blank page left, but because I cannot do this any longer. **

**This will be left in the drawer. I will not disturb it again. I suppose you knew all along that I was capable of doing this to myself, perhaps not for so long, but you were the emotionally stronger of the two of us. Deleting you from memory as you asked in the beginning would have changed so much of my past two years. I would have never learned I was still capable of emotions I had long since repressed. I will do it though, for you. Deleting the emotions I've felt in a vast array of intensities, durations—everything John, everything you brought to light will be gone. **

**I still cannot put together the "how" that our companionship came to be, but I know a part of me, as I write this, hopes this goes to you before we formally met, or even shortly thereafter. Perhaps, wishful thinking—only you can emit such thoughts—you'll never redeploy. I have to admit this truth that has gnawed at me from within, if I were to ever be fully capable to wish to spend the remainder of my days with another, to want to truly make another happy in even the simplest of ways, to be driven mad at the mere presence of another human being—to want to feel content at the mere notion of holding a hand, or simply just being, existing with another, to want to be lost gazing into the eyes of someone else, to want to listen to the trivial of daily happenings—John, if I were to have ever let myself love another, it would be you.**

**Regardless, my offer still stands. You never did answer me that night. Even if we're to be strangers the next we meet, I will truly be**

**Very sincerely yours,**

**Sherlock Holmes**

I stared down at the last entry, letting the journal slip to the floor with a soft thump. I brought a hand to my cheeks, finding them wet; I let out the breath I had been holding. I glanced down at the bed; it was still ruffled, meaning the last entry he had just written this morning. No, the room felt empty, like it hadn't been used in a while. Noise in the doorway brought my attention to the woman standing there. She crossed the room to just in front of where I sat on the edge of the bed and in a manner which only a mother could, she invaded my personal space and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

"I'll put on a pot of tea, you can gather yourself together and when you're ready, come on down."

I nodded and she gave my cheek a soft pat. I simply nodded and offered Mrs. Hudson a watery smile, one she responded with in kind. She paused in the doorway.

"He was gone this morning; he was in such a rush, he gets like that on some cases, he must've forgotten you were coming home today."

* * *

**Alrighty my dears, I apologize for my lengthy delay in updating. I'm sure this chapter will seem OOC for Sherlock, but alas, this is my fanfiction story and I'm permitted to tweak him a bit (but this is not Sherlock's POV!). I also apologize for explaining myself last update, I will do so no more.**

**I'm not certain how many more chapters I'll have with this, the end feels near...and once this is done I can write another story. Just sayin'.**

**Again, I give thanks to you lot who favorited and alterted this story. Those of you who favorited and alterted me, I am flattered, thank you. :)**


	25. Tread carefully

_**"I've been trying to forget you and forgive you. "**_

-**The Lake House**

* * *

"Right, Sherlock, your brother's got me involved now, which I don't like by the way, he said you 'deleted' something from memory, and any aloofness on your part I'm to actually take seriously."

I raised an eyebrow—I knew exactly what he was referencing, or rather who. I knew the significance of today, what the lack of a certain letter, or knock on the door meant—not that I'd have received either; those would've been for his sister.

"That er, Doctor fellow, the one you wrote to, I believe your brother said, his tour is up and he's permitted leave. His flight landed this morning, just after I called you about the case. Now don't get your knickers in a twist, your brother suspects your Doctor would head to yours."

My phone vibrated: _**Mrs. Hudson has company. Tread carefully.**_

"He has a name, why don't you use it—John. John Watson, the army doctor."

Lestrade sat back in his seat, eyeing me with various emotions, but the dominant being pity. What for? John Watson left, the feelings he brought to the surface within me left me weaker, vulnerable—something I never like to be. What is the harm in removing memories of that man, if they weren't important enough for me to keep, other than the basic knowledge of his name and job? Sometimes I even get the feeling that Donovan treats me as I have the ability to become, what's the term she uses, oh yes, an old spinster.

"Sherlock, John's back. We're all worried."

"There's no need to be. He's an army doctor and an old acquaintance of Mrs. Hudson's, nothing more. Your worry is futile and wholly unnecessary. I also suggest that you have Anderson re-scan the sitting room, yes the sitting room. The husband, eldest daughter and the cook's apprentice are the culprits. For carrying out two murders they're rather sloppy in cleaning up behind themselves."

I climbed to my feet and turned to the door.

"Sherlock, look—"

"Leave it, Lestrade."

His dejected sigh was my cue to leave. I made certain to slam his door shut, a move which surprisingly left Donovan silent on my way by her desk. Her heavy lingering stare unnerved me though.

I hailed a cab, I couldn't walk. The moment I sat down and shut the door, I felt my insides seize.

"Where to sir?"

"221B Baker Street."

My fingers curled and uncurled into tight fists, my knee started move back and forth—one would think I was a junkie in need of a fix. Any aloofness the others took they were mistaken. I was doing something correct if even Mycroft believed I had truly deleted John from memory.

I tossed a few notes to the cabbie and stepped onto the sidewalk and simply stared at the building, more pointedly, at the door. I knew Mycroft was telling me John was inside, his way of showing his own brand of concern for my well-being. I took a breath and walked forward and knocked on the door. I waited anxiously, part of me hoping it would be just like the first time I properly met John Watson.

"Sherlock, dear, you didn't have to knock, but do be quiet, I've company and he's just fallen asleep. He's traveled far and needs some rest. He's in the upstairs bedroom, mind you."

She held the door open enough for me to pass and I quickly dashed upstairs. Going all the way to the top room and stopped short three stairs from the landing. I could see him, make out the form of his body beneath the flimsy throw—Mrs. Hudson no doubt—covering him. I took the last remaining steps it took to reach the doorway.

"John."

I let it out in no more than a mere whisper. I watched the slight rise and fall of his chest, taking in the sight of him just meters away. Then I noticed his hand dangling off the edge and followed the line of his arm, to the tips of his fingers which rest gently atop an askew leather-bound book fallen to the floor—he read them.

I turned and quickly retired to my own flat, unsurprised at Mrs. Hudson's appearance on my couch with a tray of tea on the low table. I unwound my scarf and hung my coat up, neither of us willing to start the conversation that would undeniably occur. I moved to sit in the chair but the slight movement of her hand had me sitting down beside her. The moment I did she took my hand in both of hers and only then did I let myself look her in the eye.

"Your games don't work on me Sherlock. _I know_."

She maneuvered me so my head rested upon her shoulder and she merely carded her fingers through my hair, realigning the grasp of my hand with the other.

"Let it out dear, it doesn't do well to hold things like this in."

I let out the breath that seemed to be choking me from within, and all of my pent up emotions from the past two years seemed to erupt at once.

* * *

**Any mishaps are my own and I apologize profusely for them. ** -.-

**I've been distracted these past few weeks with Harry Potter. The last 13 years of my life have been dedicated to that series and I'm having a bit of trouble admitting its end. I will say I loved the final film! I've seen in 3x already in theaters and I'm certain I'll see it another handful of times before it comes to DVD. I don't think Severus was given justice, but I still think his final scenes were brilliantly portrayed. Alan Rickman fulfilled his role as Severus quite well. I cried so much during his last few scenes. Neville, dear, dear Neville (he and Severus have always been my favorites!) truly showed his colors and I think Matt brought him to life wonderfully (and let's not deny he was on BAMF! XD). :D Did anyone else find Albus Severus to be adorable? Or amused that his caged pet was a ferret? XD **

**Anywho, I've also finally come across production photos from Sherlock season 2! I will not even begin to deny I had a fangirl moment. XD They're coming back! :D 3 I'll just have to wait a while longer than those of you in the UK since I live in the USA. -.- **

**I hope you lot are having a wonderful summer! I got my new car, finally! It's only taken seven months to settle my stupid accident claim. I've named him Spencer...mostly after Dr. Reid. :P **

**-J.**


	26. Peripheral vision

**I've a feeling some of you lot will not be fond of this chapter...it's small in size, but I feel it's adequate.**

**I've another story in the works, I might post the first chapter tomorrow...well I've two, but only one of them is a Sherlock story (the other's my first Criminal Minds). **

**I apologize if I missed any mishaps...I was in a bit of a rush. Feel free to point 'em out. :)**

* * *

"Your brother was always the one more incapable of showing his emotions than you, but he does care, in a way that's particular to him; you need to let him."

I smiled.

"You're the only person I think he actually fears."

She chuckled and ran her fingers through my hair. She turned and pressed a kiss to my forehead then untangled herself from me.

"I'll be back with some tea, that's gone cold, unless you want to be alone for now?"

"I think I'll play for a while. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She nodded and got to her feet, taking the tray of cool tea with her as she departed down to her flat. I slowly climbed to my feet and moved to the window where my violin lay in its case. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and let out a breath, fogging my view of the street below. Various couples in stages of relationships flowed effortlessly by, as if simply being with each other was the simplest of tasks—was it? I stepped back and reached for my Stradivarius and removed it gently from its case. I placed it on my shoulder, my fingertips on instinct tuning the instrument; then I played. My eyes closed on their own accord and I let everything I had pent up release through the music that echoed throughout my sitting room.

Sometime later when my fingers felt they needed a small reprieve, I realized I was no longer alone. No one was in the room but someone had been listening to me out in the hall—no, in the doorway. I only turned the barest of an inch, my peripheral vision confirming what I had known—hoped.

"John."

His slight intake of breath caused me to turn fully towards him, to take in his appearance. He thinned out, looks more worn and weary than before, but underneath it all, beneath the army doctor, there was John—_John_. I placed my violin down in its case and in an instant we were pulled to each other like magnets, however, opposing ones, stopping just a breath from each other, simply staring and sharing uneven breaths.

"Sherlock."

His eyes fluttered shut and I was at a loss. His nostrils flared; perhaps he was restraining himself—from what? Did he too feel this overwhelming notion to wrap me in his arms and never let go? Press his nose to the part of my body where neck and shoulder meet and simply inhale? To tangle his fingers within my curls and pull as tight as possible to know, to have proof, that I am just as real as he is? That I am right here before him?

I tentatively reached forward, my fingertips ghosting along his cheek, trailing down his jaw, my eyes following before they're lost in his own, freshly opened. Wide and expressing everything he knows I don't know how to portray. I feel his fingertips—calloused—dive beneath the collar of my button down. Pressing into my collarbone, dancing up to my neck before trailing up my jaw and then, then gloriously losing themselves in my curls. Fisting as much as he can, pulling me forward to rest my forehead against his and simply breathe and stare.


	27. All of him

"Sherlock."

It was no more than a whisper from his lips but it spoke volumes. I closed my eyes and pressed forward, just enough to press my lips to his. That spark that was there the evening we shared on his bed, in his flat, it was still there and I felt it tingle through my entire body. My pulse rushed, my heartbeat quickened and I felt myself flush from his proximity. Desire pitted in my stomach and I wanted to give into it completely—wholly.

His lips molded to mine, his warm exhales fluttered down my cheek through his nostrils, and his fingers, they curled tighter in my hair and I felt my mind click into complete oblivion. All that mattered to me in this moment was John. His hands. His lips. His body pressing into my own. _All_ of him.

He pulled away abruptly, resting his forehead against my chest, catching his breath. My fingers were lost in his jumper, clutching desperately, dictating with facts that he was here and I was not delusional.

"Sherlock, I, I wrote to you every moment I could spare…for the longest time I thought your brother was behind sending me back and I cursed him…Sherlock the things I said abou—"

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close and pressed my lips to his head.

"It wasn't him; that was my initial thought as well. I never received a letter from you John. I had hoped, ached for even just one, but all I had was your journal."

I felt him nod, wrapping his own arms around my waist.

"I got one piece of mail, a package. It was a typed letter and small stack of photos…all of you, except for one."

He pulled away from me and our eyes met, I knew, instantly I knew what he was referring to.

"Jim."

I watched as he clenched his eyes shut, as if trying to shut out the memory. I could read it all as it fluttered across his face. The jealousy, the anger, the disappointment, and mostly the hurt; he bit his lip before taking a deep, calming breath.

"After that I worked twice as hard to fix the wounded soldiers in my care, pulled the trigger without giving a damn about the consequences…I had thought…Sherlock…god Sherlock, I thought…since I never got any post, I assumed…that image was all I could see for two months, every time I closed my eyes it was there…I thought I didn't matter…that I never did."

My breath caught as his voice cracked—something within me broke. He pulled me closer to him, burying his face in my chest once more.

"John, I, I'm sor—"

"_Don't_ Sherlock, don't you dare apologize to me about it."

I felt his head shaking against my chest as his fists clenched tighter into my shirt. I wanted to stop this ache within me, and above all else, I wanted to dissolve whatever negativity John held within himself towards me.

"But, John, I, tell me what to do, _please_. I am at quite the loss. I've hurt you, something that brings more pain to me than anything I have ever inflicted upon myself."

"You were going to delete me. You had the others—barring Mrs. Hudson—convinced you already had."

I felt his nose nuzzle itself between my open collar, his breaths alternating between his nostrils and mouth, causing warm puffs of air to elicit a spreading of goose-pimples over my chest.

"I could never delete you; as for Mrs. Hudson, she isn't human, of that I am certain."

His small laugh met my ears, muffled within my chest, but I felt his body vibrate against my own, could feel his shoulders bouncing. He pulled away once more and looked me dead in the eye and smiled. His eyes were tinged red from unshed tears, crinkles surrounded his eyes as he smiled up at me—I had never seen anyone more beautiful than in that moment.

"Take me to bed Sherlock, in every sense that you can comprehend that statement."


	28. Rendered me unfeeling

**Hello my dears! Apologies for the wait (however, this is longer update...at least compared to my recent two)! I got sucked into my newest creation (well one of 'em), _Hands Clean_. A Criminal Minds (Spencer/Derek [slash]) story. It's quite fun actually. XD I did post a small one-shot of Sherlock/John, it's called _Golden Boy_. If you haven't checked it out, could you do me such a kind favor and do so? Please? **

**I also have another Sherlock/John story in the works. I've already started planning out my chapters. Eleven in total. I'm just not sure how many more of this story there will be before I start. I'm not sure if I could handle three full stories at the same time...but perhaps I'll give it a go? **

**This does go along with the rating some-what. I hope you lot enjoy this chapter. [Remember POV changes from time to time!] ;)**

**If there's any mishaps, feel free (aka PLEASE) to tell me. :)**

**I appreciate all the favorites/alerts/reviews. Readers in general, I adore you! 3 **

**Without further word vomit on my end:**

* * *

I could only watch—no stare at—the man before me with only the slightest amount of amusement. My desire for him ran too deep and too strong for any other feeling to take hold. Fate, destiny, what-have-you, it all fell to this moment, this fleeting moment of knowing I made the great man before me speechless.

My eyes fell shut as his fingers crawled up my back, his arms once again around me, pulling me closer the higher they rose before pulling them away, only to cup my face between his hands; his fingers inching towards my hair, curling themselves between my short strands. He pulled us closer and pressed his lips to mine, his grasp within my hair pulling harder, tighter; I groaned.

He pulled away, his gaze, open for once, letting me in, met my own and I smiled.

"John, I, would it be appropriate to ask that we relocate to your room as mine is a disaster and I would presume you would like to be comfortable?"

I nodded up to him and untangled myself from him and turned towards the door I had entered only moments ago. Watching him play his violin was breathtaking; the way in which he simply let go, let his emotions tell the instrument what to do. The way he told me everything he felt, never realizing he actually could.

I stopped in the threshold and turned to him, he looked uncertain, not questioning or regretting, no, but apprehensive as if he did not know what was to come next. Perhaps he doesn't. We've never spoken of his past, not much of it anyway. He knew I put myself out and about, but he should also know that if he—_we_—do this, there will never be another. I held out my hand to him, the unasked notion to follow me.

He glanced at my hand then up to my face, reading everything I knew and probably couldn't even fathom at the moment of how I was feeling. I gave the barest of nods and he moved forward, reaching out for my hand, tangling his fingers with mine once they were in reach. I smiled at the slight quirk in his lips.

I led him upstairs.

I couldn't even begin to imagine what was going through his mind. I felt my left hand tremble, this wasn't some unknown territory. This was all in the hands of a man, who for all I knew, is ignorant of bedding another person, probably never even having touched himself. Or he could have experimented, that would be the sort of thing that might occupy his vast, brilliant mind. This was all or nothing and I feared the choice of nothing.

When his footsteps reached the top landing I stopped. His body stopped close to mine, enough to feel his warmth. My door was a jar.

"I hadn't the time to remake your bed from my abrupt departure this morning."

His words were spoken in warm breaths against my neck. I removed my hand from him and turned to face him, taking in the site of him. His lips, just barely swollen but tinged a darker pink than normal, his hair in disarray from my fingers' ministrations moments ago, the spot on his neck where I buried and nuzzled my nose, just to get a sniff of him, of Sherlock. His eyes, those blue, blue eyes that could stop a man in his tracks and read everything you never wanted another human being to know, they were open once more.

"You're worried of my choice; my apparent ability to remain emotionless, you fear has rendered me unfeeling. John, I can assure you there is nothing more to what you see before you right now."

He took a step forward, pressing us chest to chest, his arms enveloping me once more, his forehead resting against mine, his breaths fluttering down my face; I closed my eyes.

"I know what it is you want from me, of me, but I…John, I've never felt this before, this tightening in my chest, this unyielding desire to know everything about you, mind and body."

I felt him take a deep breath, furrow his brow, and opened my eyes only to note his were now closed. His hands were on my hips now, grasping enough to feel like he was holding on for dear life and yet, not hard enough. His eyes suddenly opened and we were locked in a stare.

"John, I, you should know that I want to give you want you want, I just don't know _how_."

"Oh, Sherlock, I don't need everything from you right now, I'm happy to go at your pace, just knowing that you're willing, it's enough for me right now."

He let out a sigh of relief and pressed his lips to mine; curling his fingers together into my hips, pressing forward—a tad violent if I do say, and I let him; my own hands grabbing onto his biceps, pulling him to me, and pressing up into him. I let his tongue—tentatively—probe my lips before I opened them to him. His taste permeated my mouth, a mixture of old tobacco—old habits leave nasty residue, tea, ink, and something entirely unrecognizable. I was _tasting_ him—finally tasting Sherlock.

I tugged him backwards till my legs hit my bed, taking a knee between his legs I nudged them apart and allowed us to fall onto my bed. He may be slight in build at a quick glance but he had weight to him and I relished in him pressing me into my mattress. Our slight dishevelment caused my shirt to become un-tucked and I felt his fingertips on my bare skin. Just above the waist of my pants at my hip and I felt him tense in realization.

The burning that remained after each apprehensive stroke went directly to my core, building up with something so indefinable. I felt his warmth on top of me shift, pressing himself down on me, his groin weighing down on my own and I felt the stirrings of arousal on both our parts. With the slights hitch of my hips I moved upwards and he froze once again—due to my movement or his sudden moan, I couldn't exactly deduce which.

He gave the slightest of thrusts and groaned as he sucked my bottom lip into his mouth. His hips began to move, awkward and slow before he picked up a rhythm that could only be done by him. As his teeth nibbled my lip I brought my hands up his back, clinging desperately to him, feeling every movement his muscles made. Starting with his erector spinae, then his latissimus dorsi, the slight moment of teres major as I moved to the outer edge of his back, just below his arms; the movement of his posterior deltoids as I cupped his shoulders, before cupping the top of his trapezius at the nape of his neck.

My fingers twisted upwards into his curls and I pushed up into him, pressing my pelvis against his, causing another groan to escape his chest and into my mouth. My lips pressing harder into his, taking whatever he was willing to give.

His hips stuttered against my own, pressing harder and faster; I couldn't help the small laugh that erupted from within me, or the way my body vibrated against his whilst I laughed, but what I loved most in that moment of interruption, was the responding grin that was pressed against my mouth.


	29. It's all fine

My eyes suddenly opened and I found myself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. I was in a bed, John's bed, a bed we _both_ were currently occupying. I couldn't fight the grin that erupted once I recalled the events that led to my current position. A warm, comforting weight pressed me down into the mattress and small puffs of air fluttered across my chest—my _nude_ chest.

The slight movement of my leg notified me that the rest of my body was of the same condition. I let my mind wake and revel in the closeness of John's body to my own; feeling his own body heat radiating from his own unclothed body. If he were awake or possibly even now asleep, he would be hearing the quickening of my heart palpitations. Then again, those were not considered normal.

"It's not even half six yet Sherlock, why are you awake? Did you even sleep?"

"How did I miss that you were waking up?"

I felt his body shift as he chuckled against me. One of his fingers began tracing an odd patter on my right hip.

"That massive intellect of yours must've deemed me unimportant."

I knew he was jesting, but something within me was struck with the strangest notion that displeased me. I turned my gaze to him, moving swiftly, shifting our positions, pulling him up with my strong grasp on his biceps. His wide eyes met my own.

"My dear John, you are by far the most important thing to ever cross my mind, never degrade yourself like that again. I may have given you the impression of that before, but you must know, you _have_ to—"

"Sherlock, relax. You still lack the ability to pick up on sarcasm."

I blinked at him and realized he was inwardly laughing at me.

"You are important to me. Extremely."

"And you to me."

Giving into instinct—pure _emotional_ instinct—I lent forward and pressed my lips to his. His arms encircled my chest, pulling us closer and I couldn't help but whimper at the unexpected warmth that spread through me at the skin-to-skin contact. My mind immediately returned to last night.

_Fingers curled into my hair, grasping, pulling me closer to him. I felt his body tremble beneath me; he's laughing. I couldn't fight the grin that erupted against his lips as my hips stuttered against his. Pelvis to pelvis, clothed erection to clothed erection; the feeling of his warm body beneath me was breathtaking. _

_My heart is pulsing, my skin flushed, warmer than my natural disposition and my mind, my thoughts, were centered on the man beneath me. My brain—my hard-drive—was centered on John Watson and I had never felt my mind so stimulated before. _

"…u finally lost yourself?"

I shook my head and stared at the man before me; the smile that caused his eyes to crinkle at their ends, genuine and only given to a few. I pressed my lips to his once more, shifting our bodies till I had him on his back once more. Pressed chest to pelvis with him, it still felt like it wasn't enough, I craved more of him. He pulled away and his giggle met my ears.

"I have to be at work in an hour Sherlock; believe me, as much as I would love another round of last night, especially skin-to-skin, I need a shower. You could join me if you'd like."

His hands trailed up my back as he awaited my answer. I pressed one more kiss to his lips before I nodded. He grinned.

I climbed off of him and out of bed, waiting for him to do the same. I suddenly felt embarrassed to be unclothed in his presence. I felt his hand link with mine and give it a squeeze.

"It's all fine Sherlock."

I let him lead me downstairs to the bath, watched as he let go of my hand once in the small room and busied himself turning on the water and pulling out our towels. I took in the sight of his shoulder, the one forever marred by the bullet hole. I knew he was self-conscious about it, I couldn't ever fathom why. It marked him as a survivor, as the soldier he is.

I took the handful of steps required to meet him, his body mere inches from my own, leaning down far enough to press my lips to his scar. He tensed and quickly pulled away from me, nearly losing balance over the lip of the tub.

"Don't be ashamed of it John."

"I'm, I…I'm not."

I wrapped my arms around him from behind and simply stood pressed against him; feeling as he regulated his breathing, letting his hands reach for my own.

"The water's warm now."

I removed myself from him and watched as he stepped into the tub, the water flow changing as it accommodated around his body's intrusion. I couldn't move; rooted to the spot because I realized what his problem was. I should've realized it a while ago.

Quickly shaking my head I scrambled into the shower and pulled him into my arms, nuzzling my nose into the patch of skin behind his ear.

"I'm sorry."

It was merely a whisper but I knew he heard me. He turned in my arms, facing me and pulled me closer, putting his head beneath my chin. For some reason, standing like this felt even better than last night.

* * *

**Deepest apologies you lot! Between hurricane Irene and power outages and the busiest two weeks from hell at work, I've finally had a moment to sit down and throw together a rather botched update. Not a fan of this chapter...hope it's not too horrible. Any mishaps, feel free to point out. **

**I'm going to attempt to upload my next story within the next two days; time and work permitting. It will not be related to this; as I doubt I'd write a sequel. I've learned that sequels and I, we're not friends. That being said, this may have one or two more chapters left. :\**

**I hope, especially if any of you were in Irene's path, or are still dealing with this crazy weather the East Coast is dealing with, you're safe! No serious harm or damage was done! **

**Regardless, it's Friday (well for me)! I hope you lot have a wonderful weekend! :D**


	30. Was this normal?

"Sherlock, stop that, you know this will get you no where. Perhaps he just went out to get a pint; he does that time to time, no harm in it."

My hand—unsteady for the fourth time this evening—ruined yet another experiment on the crowded table; Mrs. Hudson tutted from the doorway.

"This isn't like you, you know. Sulking surely, but this wounded animal bit, Sherlock, you're not a twelve year old school girl. He'll come 'round. If not, phone that brother of yours, debt or no debt, I'm certain he'll find your Doctor. Do you need a cuppa? Only asking this once dear, 'm not your housekeeper."

I glared up at the smirking woman on the landing; oh she was good, I would give her that. She had arrived back at Baker Street two hours after John had left for work and I had been sitting on the sofa, in the same spot John had left me in; my cup of tea gone cold and untouched.

"You still haven't told him have you? Sherlock, it's part of the process, I know you like to pretend you're terrible with feelings, but dear, you wear them on your sleeves and they're always written in your eyes. If one looks close enough—trust me, John does—they'll see everything you try so hard to hide."

She turned and went down stairs to get me a cup of tea. She returned moments later to find me in the same spot—was this normal? Did the rest of the people milling about the world lose themselves to their thoughts and emotions this deeply? Did they waste so much time staring at walls or the ceiling trying to figure out—no, I needed to stop this.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

I took a sip, mostly of forced habit then anything. She wouldn't leave me till I finished it anyway. She knows it's the first thing I've had to drink all day; she'll probably force a sandwich on me next.

"What are you going to do about that Jim boy?"

My gaze met hers, I was shocked. She spat his name out. I knew she wasn't fond of him, but I had never heard her speak of another person with such disdain before, well, except for her husband, but that was years ago.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play me for a fool Sherlock."

I sat up feeling like a child in her presence once again.

"John's back, that's all that mattered to me; Jim knew that from the start."

I stood up, allowing my stool to fall over in the abrupt movement. Jim, Jim knew my attachment to John. Knew how deep my feelings, my thoughts ran for John—knew the moment he returned, if feelings were still there, were still curious to grow, that he would be pushed to the side. Jim would be ignored. I grabbed my phone and dialed.

"_Hello sexy, I was wondering when you'd catch on_."

* * *

**Oh goodness, I don't think I'm sorry even begins to adequately begin to cover how apologetic I actually feel for delaying this update. This tiny one at that. -.- **

**That being said, there's still only a few chapters left, I can't give a definite number 'cause I'm not even certain on that, but I know the end is near. **

**I'm leaving Thursday to visit my dear Watson. Meaning you may get an update before I leave, or if I so choose to relocate on a whim (I have monies saved, so it's not a complete ridiculous notion), the next updates may take a while. By that I mean I found out my bosses have been arses and have kept us in the dark to the fact that they're going for bankruptcy and have given us a timeframe of New Years for the close of business IF we make it through the winter. So all the free time I've been using for writing has been devoted for job-searching as of late...as well as attempting to keep my wits about me. **

**Writing's always been my solace and now, now I don't even have the time for it. -.-**

**Hope you lot are fairing way better than I am! :)**


	31. All a misunderstanding

**Hello my dears! I haven't forgotten about this littl gem, it's just been a hectic last few weeks. **

**I am jobless, my bosses closed shop on us without any warning. Well, we knew it was coming, they just never said the truth, instead spouting lies and whatnot. On Christmas Eve of all days no less. So filing for unemployment, job searching, spending time with friends and family, I haven't had time to update anything really. Though, if I get to spend the time I did with my goddaugther, I'd gladly give up my freetime and spend it with her, she's a fiesty little two year old and I am her 'Denn.'**

**Anywho, this is kind of fillerish, but I hope you like it. I'm uncertain as to whose POV I want the next chapter, any suggestions? ;) **

* * *

"Dr. Watson, your last appointment has arrived, shall I send him in?"

I glanced up at the clock, he was twenty minutes early; I could do with an early evening. Perhaps once I finished here I could see what Sherlock would like for dinner.

"Certainly, thank you."

The door remained open for my appointment to come in, I returned to my folders on my desk and didn't glance up till I noticed the shadow fall over my current page.

"Hello Johnny-boy, you miss me?"

I smiled; despite whatever it was that happened between the man in front of me and Sherlock, Jim was a friend of sorts when we lived in the same apartment building; quirky fellow and knowing Sherlock that says a lot about the poor man.

"Jim! I hope it's nothing too serious that's brought you in, what can I help you with?"

He propped himself against the door, asserting himself the dominant in this conversation. Blocking my only escape; I would look rather foolish escaping through the window behind me. I let my smile stiffen and he smirked; he knew he was in control now.

"I'm here for a rather personal matter Johnny-boy, you see, Sherlock and I never terminated our prior agreement. You've been toying with what's _mine_. I've never been keen on sharing and I don't take kindly to those touching what doesn't belong to them."

I remained calm; there was no use in working myself up and letting him _see_ it.

"He told me about that, I deterred our union till I thought he had spoken to you, so really this is all a misunderstanding Jim. I wasn't aware of how serious it was between the two of you, I apologize."

His gaze hardened and I refrained from letting the chill that came over me physically present itself. Showing weakness in front of a man like Jim led to bad things. I remember that much from the few times I socialized with him prior. He was a premium manipulator without morals. My thin ice was beginning to crack.

"Tsk, tsk, Johnny. Sherlock might buy into your façade, but you have to know I see right through it."

He stalked to the chair directly across from me and lent forward, his fingers curling around its top almost in a slight caress.

"You know the predicament you're in, no need to pretend to be an idiot with me. You'll file something and then we'll leave; I'll be waiting for you just around the corner, in front of that pub you frequent. If anyone asks you tell them that's where you're headed, understood my dear?"

I shook my head; if he was anything like Sherlock then emotions would ruffle his feathers. He rose an eyebrow; a miniscule triumph.

"What's not to understand? You make up a file for my visit, one without the need for a follow-up, I leave, you follow the moment you're done my file and then you will head in the direction o—"

His eyes narrowed to slits as I cut him off.

"It's not that, I understand that, it's the fact that you think taking me will have an impact on Sherlock. You have met the man? The two of you mesh so well due to your lack of emotional understanding and possession of them, so I'm trying to understand what it is you're trying to do here by taking me hostage."

I shuddered at the sight of the cold smile that spread across his face.

"Oh, pet, you're too good sometimes. You and I both know that Sherlock is capable of emotions; we just let him play his self-imposed delusion of being a sociopath. For you see _Dr. Watson_, Sherlock Holmes would have never dropped me from his radar the millisecond he became aware of your return if for one, you meant nothing to him, and two, he was incapable of feeling. You have five minutes after I shut this door behind me, don't make me force your hand."

I could only nod dumbly in response. I couldn't argue with him, we both knew he was right. He gave a curt nod and turned sharply to the door and strode out, yelling false thanks over his shoulder as he closed it behind him. I glanced down at his folder and scrawled something about an ear infection but no follow-up. I was tempted to send a text to Sherlock, to let him know, but somehow I knew, _I knew_, Jim would know and that would cause all sorts of problems.

I watched the clock for another two minutes before I let myself out of my office. I bid a good evening to the ladies at the desk, mentioned I'd be out for a pint and I'd see them later. I headed towards the dingy pub not too far from the clinic and noticed the sleek sedan parked on the corner. A man stood at the backdoor and upon my approach opened the door; I could see Jim's pant leg on the other side of the seat. With a sigh I climbed in.

"Phone."

Jim held his hand out to me as the door beside me closed with a sharp click. I dug my phone out of my pocket and gave it to him; he merely slipped it into his breast pocket.

"Buckle up, I don't need you injured before it's necessary."

With a grudging nod I slipped the belt around me and clicked it in place. I'm a bloody soldier, I've been in worst situations, this shouldn't have me on edge—I shouldn't crave it like something I've missed either.

"Good boy, now, we'll wait a while, it'll take Sherlock a bit to realize you haven't returned, by that time we'll have reached our destination. You do what I say and I won't have to hurt you too badly, I know how your shoulder still bothers you. Don't be so surprised Johnny, Sherlock isn't the only one with special gifts. Then again, all one would have to do is just take a look at you and know."

I curled my hands into fists.

"Temper, temper. I won't let anyone bound you unless you act out, it really will be up to you the state you'll be in when Sherlock finally shows up."

"Why did you send me those photos?"

I felt his gaze on the side of my head; I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of looking him in the eye. He let out a slight chuckle. If it had come from anyone else I'd have believed it warm, however, coming from him, I had to fight another chill.

"I knew it would make you jealous. To see his face captured in moments you thought you were the only one privileged to. I knew it would upset you that someone you had finally connected with could so easily push you aside for someone new, someone exciting, and the hurt it would instill within you, well that was just a bonus."

I clenched my jaw and remained silent. He wanted a reaction and I was not going to give him one. I kept my gaze out the window, ignoring the blurring scenery, I'd never be able to navigate my way back; all I knew is we were heading towards the outskirts of London.

What seemed like ages later I heard a mobile ringing.

"Oh, goody, he's decided to play… _Hello sexy, I was wondering when you'd catch on_."

* * *

**PS: Any mishaps, please point 'em out to me and I'll do my best to fix 'em! :) **

**Also, those of you that still continue to add this to your favorites and alerts, it truly does mean the world to me! And gave me the kick in the rump I needed to spit this bit out! Thankies! **


	32. Our Johnnyboy

**"Something must've happened."**

-The Lake House

* * *

My eyes locked with Mrs. Hudson's the moment I recognized the voice on the other end of John's mobile. I put it on speaker.

"What have you done?"

"_I can see why you like our dear Johnny-boy. Your tempers flare so easily without hardly any prodding._"

"I'm not in the mood for your antics Jim."

"_No need to get hostile Sherlock. Johnny's quite alright, he's actually sitting right here beside me, but no, no you cannot speak to him just yet. That will ruin my game._"

"I'm not playing."

The silence that lingered actually frightened me. Mrs. Hudson clutched at her chest, falling into the chair to her left, her eyes locked with my own. I knew he was smirking, he had to be.

"_Is that your final decision then Sherlock? You're certain you don't want to play? There is no going back once you make your choice._"

"John is not a toy. If you are upset with me, just leave him out of this!"

He chuckled, and for a moment I swear—not out loud for Mrs. Hudson's sake of course—my heart stopped.

"_Very well, just be very clear in understanding me Sherlock, you made your decision and you will bear the repercussions._"

I heard a snap, like fingers on the other end, then shuffling. John's voice was muffled, not through cloth, no a hand.

"Leave him alone!"

The noises filled the apartment, the soft click of a phone being set down; clothes ruffling as more than one person scuffled. Mrs. Hudson staggered to my side, her hands clinging desperately to the one not holding the phone. Her eyes closed and face pressed to my collar, I could feel her deep breaths, her tremors as she attempted to make sense of what we were hearing.

The distinct sound of skin beating skin—through it all, with the exception of the initial muffled outburst from John, he remained silent. Of course, he was a soldier, trained for harsh conditions, horrible treatment—I knew I could end the call, but I had the distinct impression that if I did that, Jim would only call back. I also feared it was the only way John knew he wasn't alone in what was happening to him.

"_Enough. Have you had enough Sherlock?_"

I knew my answer sealed John's fate. Yes, he would be killed instantaneously. No, it would be drawn out. I closed my eyes.

"Can I speak to him?"

"_Oh, very well, but only for a moment, I'm a busy man._"

I felt my own hand squeezing Mrs. Hudson's in return as we listened intently to the shuffling going on. Someone roughly grabbed him by his short hair—I knew his shoulder must be ailing him.

"_Sherlock?"_

"John! Oh, John, I, I'm sor—"

"_Don't you dare apologize Sherlock! This isn't your fa—"_

I felt as both Mrs. Hudson and I jumped at the sudden noise that erupted from the tiny speaker on my phone. I felt my phone slip out of my hand and fall to the floor, its soft clunk unheard by the loud thud of a body hitting a hard surface.

"_You made your choice Sherlock._"

_Click. _

* * *

**Right, erm, please do not be any form of negative towards me for doing this, I have my reasons! Though it may not seem it, I really, really do.**

**I know this is short, but there's a reason. Yes, it's another cliffy, but it's neccessary! I promise you lot that much! **


	33. For all that you can

"** I think he wants us to do what he couldn't. But, admitting that would mean admitting that he came up short in some way... that he could do more. And that tortures him."**

-The Lake House

* * *

I sat there numb for all of two minutes, letting Mrs. Hudson sob into my chest as I recalled everything I could from that phone call. He took him somewhere he could—he could inflict damage without being heard by nosy neighbors and in London, that's a hard place to come by. So he is in the outskirts of the city, or even perhaps out near the countryside, but in which direction?

I gently push Mrs. Hudson back and look her in the eye.

"I need to do something Mrs. Hudson, go make us some tea and I will double check and hope—god I hope—what I'm about to do will fix this."

"Fix this, Sherlock, John's dead! There's no coming back from a bullet!"

"He did it once before Mrs. Hudson, he can do it again."

I pressed my lips to her forehead as she nodded. We slowly stood to our feet and I watched as she made her way down to her flat. Once I heard her door click shut I raced upstairs to where I had last left John's journal. I faltered in the doorway, if, if this didn't work, no one knows how I'm going to handle this. I slowly move towards the nightstand and pull open the drawer. I have to do this.

I poured through the pages, hoping with every fiber of my being that this would work—why shouldn't it? Our odd sort of communication started this way; surely I could save his life by never letting him in. There it was, the one that I would have to figure out how to overwrite and hope this worked.

…**am no Harriet. I also assure you that if your sister were to ever read those words she would never forgive herself for the amount of self-hatred she'd put on her shoulders the remainder of her days. People do tend to waste so much energy on emotions. I find emotions pointless and refrain from allowing myself to give into them…**

…_I'd recall someone experimenting till the early hours of morning and then sleeping on my couch…_

I sit on the edge of the bed, missing it completely and sliding to the floor. I clenched my fists in the edges of the journal, feeling the worn leather give way, the hardened bundle of page edges cut into my fingers—this could not be all I had left of the one person to take me for all that I am. Something dripped onto the page, smudging the ink there. Making it bleed and fade as I swiped a thumb over it. Another appeared on the opposite page.

I closed my eyes, ignoring the stinging, the burning of the unshed tears I was fighting—I did not lose control of my emotions. I've managed to do such a thing thus far in my life—John would understand. I shook my head and took in a few deep, calming breaths. I released my harsh grip on the book's ends, ignoring the cramping and the aching from such a stiff hold. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a pen, uncapping it I hesitated above my previously written words.

How do you tell someone goodbye when they won't have a clue about what you're talking about? While I still cannot figure out how John and I started communicating, I know that if I go back and tell him something over, it should effect a future decision—and if I do this correctly, neither of us will remember the other come morning. I would gladly give him up if it meant his life was still intact.

**Dear John, **

**First and foremost you must understand that while this will be undoubtedly confusing for you, you must read till the end of this letter. I will do my best to keep it legible over the previously written words upon this page. **

**You will make the most remarkable Army Doctor, have no doubts about that. You knowledge and skill, and above all else, your devotion to do goodwill is what will keep you grounded in your hectic profession. Just don't take on too many lost causes; it will be your downfall. **

**Ignore the new tenant at 221B Baker Street. You can let the upstairs room, your old one if I recall, but ignore the tenant. FOR ALL THAT YOU CAN, IGNORE HIM! He's nothing special, just a high functioning sociopath with no time for anyone else. He's unfriendly, unemotional and has little regard for himself, let alone those surrounding him. Mrs. Hudson might tell you otherwise, but that's because she will be indebted to him; she looks at him through rose-coloured glasses.**

**I wrote this letter about twelve different times in my head—how do you tell a complete stranger from the past that they're your best friend and goodbye all at the same time? I suppose I've figured it out, once this letter is complete and I do hope, that neither of us remembers the other in the morning. I'm doing this for you, you have to know; as I mentioned above, those lost causes, you chose me as one. I was your downfall. I had to stop it if I could, and what better way to stop things from happening—don't let them happen in the first place. **

**So please, for the sake of my greatest possession, my mind and my sanity, keep this journal with you. Don't leave it in your drawer upstairs where I can find it. Your last line asks: Am I missed? More than I could ever hope to comprehend, and more than either you or I will ever know.**

**Yours Always,**

**-A friend.**

I capped the pen and quickly shut the journal, not bothering to wait for the ink to dry. I stuffed it back in the top drawer and stumbled to my feet. This had better work—it better.

I slowly made way down to Mrs. Hudson's flat, knocking softly on her door. She opened it and ushered me inside, guiding me to one of the chairs at her table.

"Here you are dear, drink up. It'll help."

She pushed a cup of warm tea into my hands and let her fingers linger over my own. I glanced up into her red, puffy eyes—I found for the first time in my life, actually wanting to sleep. She withdrew her hands and pressed her lips to my forehead.

"You're welcome to lie on the couch when you're done, but you're not to move from this chair till that cup is empty and at least one half of that sandwich is eaten, do you understand me?"

I glanced down at the simple sandwich on the small plate and nodded. I doubt I could stomach it, but Mrs. Hudson would ream me if I went against her words—both of us in shock and mourning be damned. With a sigh I lifted the cup to my lips and took a sip—chamomile, ah, she wanted me to rest.

I listened as she busied herself, tidying her knickknacks, shuffling through papers and magazines, finally sitting down in her chair and the soft clicking of her knitting needles broke through the solemn silence hanging between us.

I forced the bites of sandwich down, the familiar sting to my eyes returned, the burn of the onset of tears; I swallowed the last of one-half the sandwich and turned to face Mrs. Hudson. She didn't stop with her knitting but she gave me an understanding nod. I quickly climbed to my feet and left her flat.

I returned to my own, staring at the clutter I would once have had to clean up once John arrived—with a soft whimper I let myself fall face first into the couch. I clutched onto whatever surface of it I could as my body gave in to the emotions whirling around inside of me; this hollowness, this emptiness, this despair, this anguish—why would anyone want to be able to feel this way?

I felt the tears fall, creating wet splotches on the couch that I would bury my face in when I had to let out a sound. My whimpers, groans and on occasion screams, would be muffled into the couch as I mourned the loss of Dr. John Watson. A good man—a man I could only ever hope to be a tenth of.

A time later I drifted off, emotions can exhaust you physically—yet another reason I refrained from using them—I let my thoughts settle on the slight hope that what I had done would fix this gaping whole within me.

* * *

**There is only one more chapter to this, but hey, that just means I can start working on another story... **

**I know there's a bit of OOC in this chapter, but it had to be done; I tried to keep the OOC as close to Sherlock as I could. Hopefully it wasn't too horrible. **


	34. When he returns

**"You waited."**

-The Lake House

* * *

"You really should think about getting someone to let that room Sherlock, it's not good to be cooped up alone like you are."

I let my eyes smile down at the woman in the parlor.

"I've got you Mrs. Hudson, besides who'd want me for a flatmate? If you can find a suitable one I will refrain from slowly demolishing the flat."

She smiled.

"No you won't, and I already have. Most of his things are already upstairs and he'll be back within the hour. You will behave won't you?"

I tilted my head.

"He's important to you, who is he?"

Her eyes lit up as she smiled up at me.

"John, John Watson. He actually owned this place before we took it over. He's a nice young man; don't go scaring him off with your silly adventures."

I let a small smile show.

"They're not silly Mrs. Hudson, and you get excited when you have something to gossip about with Mrs. Turner."

"Oh hush you! I tidied up a bit, not much mind, but it's obvious now two of you live upstairs. I'll send him up when he returns."

Her smile was soft, but her look held a lethal tinge to it—none of my games as she liked to call it. I nodded as she waved me off. I strode up the rest of the stairs and froze in the doorway; oddly enough, while admittedly there were a few new additions throughout the flat, it wasn't too noticeable, then again, not everyone was me. There were new books mingled in with my own, slotted in perfectly with my system or organization—the lack thereof actually. Medicinal texts mostly, so he was a doctor, how dull.

A closed laptop sat atop the secondary desk, not mine—then where, oh, that is generous. The chaos that once sat atop John's self-designated desk sat intermingled within the mess on my imposed desk, except every pile was in similar disarray as it sat on the previous desktop. Fascinating. The third and ninth steps creaked so I couldn't sneak upstairs to peek at his room; I had only been there once. Determining which room I wanted to let as my own; I'm a busy man, it was only logical to take the one on this floor.

There was a loose scrap of paper on the low table. It was my handwriting, I would recognize it anywhere. I picked it up and read my own apparent words.

**daily happenings—John, if I were to have ever let myself love another, it would be you.**

**Regardless, my offer still stands. You never did answer me that night. Even if we're to be strangers the next we meet, I will truly be**

**Very sincerely yours,**

**Sherlock Holmes**

"You must be Mr. Holmes, hello."

I looked up across the room to the doorway where a man stood, leaning in the doorframe. He offered me a small smile and stood straight and entered the room, his hand extended outwards to me. I stared for a moment and he sheepishly stuck in his coat pocket.

"Right, I forgot, Mrs. Hudson did say you were a bit strange with other people. No worries though, I have a busy schedule, working between two clinics and all, we should hardly see each other. She also told me that I should refrain from touching your experiments, but to ask that you label them properly so I don't accidently ingest one for a meal."

There was something utterly familiar about him but I could not place him in the recesses of my memory. I knew him, but not, at the same time. He finally recognized the scrap of paper in my hand his cheeks tinged pink—why?

"Might I have that back, please?"

"What's the significance of this to you?"

"You can't tell? She told me about your _adventures_, your _special_ _gift_."

I narrowed my eyes at him and he rocked on his heels, hands stuffed in his pockets. A slightly insufferable smile on his lips, his eyes locked on my form, watching me as I dissected him.

"I would recall writing something so open; I've never done such a thing. I find wasting my time on what most people deem essential takes from what I do best. I wouldn't permit my mind to be littered with thoughts brought on from pure emotion. Whoever you think wrote this, while undoubtedly plagiarized both my handwriting and my signature, I assure you Mr. Watson, I did not write this."

"It's Doctor. Are you always like this? This stubborn and closed off? I just want to know, Mrs. Hudson did warn me, but I like to see first hand what I'm getting myself into on occasion."

I pressed my lips into a thin line—he was mocking me.

"You were invalided home from either Afghanistan or Iraq as an Army Doctor, which profession you took up to escape your family as well as an attempt to redeem yourself in your own eyes at the expense of others. You miss the bustle; otherwise you'd have taken up a boring _single_ clinic duty rather than _two_. You have trouble sleeping due to nightmares of those you couldn't save while at war, your eyes tell and hold the sorrow you try so hard to conceal from others. Mrs. Hudson is just as important to you as you are to her, surrogate paternal connection. You're the son she was never able to have and she's the mother you wish yours could have been."

He smiled.

"Afghanistan. That all?"

I tilted my head.

"Not at all; I can't figure out your attachment to a forged scrap of paper."

He chuckled and walked over to his desk. I watched in silence as he pulled open one of the drawers and pulled out an old, worn, leather book. He walked towards me, holding it out.

"Open it to the marker and read, then you'll understand why that piece of paper means so much to me. You see, the words you're about to read—while it took me a bit to figure it out—were written by the very same man who wrote the remainder of that letter you're holding only a scrap of."

I sat down stiffly and took the book, glancing at its cover I realized it was a journal, his personal one—his name in the lower corner indicated it as such. I maneuvered the pages to the one he had marked.

**Dear John, **

**First and foremost you must understand…**

…**most remarkable Army Doctor, have no doubts about that…**

…**FOR ALL THAT YOU CAN, IGNORE HIM! He's nothing special…**

…**those lost causes, you chose me as one. I was your downfall…**

…**line asks: Am I missed? More than I could ever hope to comprehend, and more than either you or I will ever know…**

When I sat up once more, letting my gaze fall on his form, he leveled me with a rather hard stare.

"I'm tired of waiting Sherlock."

I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes; he thinks I wrote both of those. It is my handwriting, but I have no memory of writing those words—I froze. I recall writing something once, but I placed the memory as a hallucination when I experimented with heroin once.

"I beg your pardon Doctor; I don't recall writing such things."

He shook his head. He didn't believe me.

"Do you recall the words, _Doctor Watson, I wish you survived, if only for the sole purpose that I solve you_?"

I gave a slight nod. He stared, hard; then after a few moments he let out a small, sad huff of laughter.

"I _waited_, which is what the man who wrote those letters _asked_ me to do. I searched and searched for all I could find of him for ages, till the one day a blog came up in my search. There are times Mr. Holmes, that I have memories I cannot recall ever having, but they feel so _real_ to me, memories of sitting in this very room, or even my own, and corresponding with the _only person_ who truly understands me."

His fingers curled further into the back of the chair he was leaning on.

"I tried to stay away, for _years,_ Mr. Holmes, to _ignore_ the man who so adamantly wished my survival, but I _can't_, not anymore."

He let out a rigid sigh and stood up, posture perfectly at parade rest and leveled his stare. I have never felt so nude merely sitting before someone, not even Mummy could make me feel like this. As if everything I attempted to dissolve within myself had materialized and is littered across my body in scrolling text for all to see.

"If it is your desire, Sherlock Holmes, to merely be flat-mates and nothing more, I shall whole-heartedly fulfill whatever you ask of me. Just _please_, I ask only one thing of you…that you…that if, if for any reason, you find yourself remembering, or you have had bits and pieces of odd memories, that you…I, I…I just don't want to be the _only one_ who remembers."

His eyes were closed, but the pain he was feeling was written clearly across his face. In fact, it was present throughout his entire being. How did I tell him I understood, but I had no method to express what I do not understand? How do I tell him the memory that feels so real to me is that of a dingy, one room apartment, his fingers tugging on my curls as my own cupped his head, our lips mingled in a passionate gridlock? That every night that memory comes through to my dreams, I always wake feeling so empty and so alone?

While questioning my thoughts I realized he was mistaking my silence as a dismissal. He gave a curt nod and turned towards the door—if what he has implied is correct, I have asked him _twice_ to remain alive for my own reasoning, the least I could do is tell him I remember something. I called out for him and he froze in the doorway, his back to me. For a moment, so brief, that if I hadn't felt this way before I'd have never even noticed—emptiness and loneliness raged within me. Making me ache in a familiar way and the apparent _cure_ for all that I am is the man standing across the room from me.

"John, I…I have one memory."

He didn't turn, but the tenseness of his shoulders lessened. He wanted me to share it with him; he wasn't going to face me until I did—he had the audacity to call _me_ stubborn. I curled my hands into fists and let out the breath I had been verbosely holding.

"We are in a flat, not this one. It screams of dejection and bitter loneliness…yet in the midst of it, on a solitary bed, your…your fingers are buried deep within my curls, my own fingers cradling your head as if you would break if I let go. Our mouths are sealed together in a quiet passion I was unaware I was capable of…I…it only comes to me on nights I manage to get sleep and…_John_, I _hurt_ when I wake the next morning."

I was so overwhelmed in sharing that I had not realized I closed my eyes, nor that John had moved towards me. It wasn't till I felt his fingertips tracing my jaw once I had finished speaking that my senses returned full force. My eyes snapped open and look down into his. I uncurled my fists and maneuvered my arms through his to mirror his gentle grasp.

My fingertips grazing the edges of his jaw, the apples of his cheeks, toying with the slight curls at the base of his neck—I've done this before, but that thrill of a first time struck simultaneously. I shifted the teeniest bit and pressed my forehead against his, our eyes still locked together—I could feel his warm breath mingling with my own on each exhale. I could see his pupils slowly dilating as his fingers curled into fists in my hair.

"Is it gone?"

I blinked at his sudden whisper, but I knew to what he was referring. I nodded against him, mirroring the smile that grew on his face. The lingering gaping whole of emptiness and loneliness was filled abruptly with a warmth I was unfamiliar with, but knew I've felt before.

My eyes closed on their own accord as I felt the barest of lips dance along my jaw-line. Actual warmth began to permeate through me as I felt his chest collide with my own as his lips pressed against the corner of my mouth. He was silently asking permission or forcing me to make a move.

Logically I did the only thing I could; I cupped his head between my fingers and attached my lips to his.

* * *

**THE END.**

* * *

**::letsoutdeepbreath:: I rewrote this bit about a dozen times before I came up with this chapter. None of the other pieces fit, not like this one. Or so I hope. Do tell me your thoughts! I'm open for all sorts of feedback. **

**Thank you for being such a wonderful lot of readers! Your alerts, favorites and reviews are what kept me going! :) You all put up with my "mid-young-adult-life-crisis" with delightful well wishes sent my way( those of you that did, you did better than my real life friends and for that, no words could express my gratitude). I also found out(through a moment of complete boredom and a dick move one night, as I googled my username, story title and a few other choice words) that a couple of you linked my story on other sites. I geeked! [To the one who posted on Tumblr, I hope that while my characters seemed a bit OOC and bits were confusing, I hope this remained a good read for you. I really do.] To the one who shared this on The Baker Street Supper Club-The Lake House forum, thank you for allowing me to find other stories that were based off the film. I finished one, and am half through another. It really is great to see how others tweak something and make it their own, and just thank you for thinking this story awesome enough to share! :)**

**I am no where near being done with this fandom; I just have to finish up my Criminal Minds fic: Hands Clean. I find that while writing more than one story at a time is doable, posting leads to nitpicking which to post first. I will be back with another story, of that I am certain! (I still have to get through season 2! ...I just have to wait till May 'cause I live in the States...oh my lanta am I grateful for youtube!) ;)**

**Thank you again! **

**-J.**


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